fvTJ 


ROBIN 


BY 
FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  SHUTTLE" 

"THE  SECRET  GARDEN" 

"THE  HEAD  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  COOMBE" 

ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK    A.    STOKES    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 


COPYRIGHT,   1921,   1922,  BY 
THE  INTERNATIONAL   MAGAZINE  COMPANY 

ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    Otf    AMERICA 


THE  YEARS  BEFORE 

Outline  Arranged  by  Hamilton  Williamson 
from 

THE  HEAD  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  COOMBE 

In  the  years  when  Victorian  standards  and  ideals 
began  to  dance  an  increasingly  rapid  jig  before  amazed 
lookers-on,  who  presently  found  themselves  dancing  as 
madly  as  the  rest — in  these  years,  there  lived  in  May- 
fair,  in  a  slice  of  a  house,  Robert  Gareth-Lawless  and  his 
lovely  young  wife.  So  light  and  airy  was  she  to  earthly 
vision  and  so  diaphanous  the  texture  of  her  mentality 
that  she  was  known  as  "Feather.3' 

The  slice  of  a  house  between  two  comparatively  stately 
mansions  in  the  "right  street"  was  a  rash  venture  of  the 
honeymoon. 

Robert — well  born,  irresponsible,  without  resources — 
evolved  a  carefully  detailed  method  of  living  upon  nothing 
whatever,  of  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  duns,  and  telling 
lies  with  aptness  and  outward  gaiety.  But  a  year  of  giving 
smart  little  dinners  and  going  to  smart  big  dinners  ended 
in  a  condition  somewhat  akin  to  the  feat  of  balancing 
oneself  on  the  edge  of  a  sword. 

Then  Robin  was  born.  She  was  an  intruder  and  a 
calamity,  of  course.  That  a  Feather  should  become  a 

v 


912800 


vi  FOREWOKD 

parent  gave  rise  to  much  wit  of  light  weight  when  Robin 
was  tx'i-biUd  ;n  the  forra  of  <*,  bundle  of  lace. 

It  was  the  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe  who  asked: 

"What  will  you  do  with  her:"' 

"Do?"  Feather  repeated.  "What  is  it  people  'do'  with 
babies?  I  don't  know.  I  wouldn't  touch  her  for  the 
world.  She  frightens  me." 

Coombe  said: 

"She  is  staring  at  me.  There  is  antipathy  in  her 
gaze."  He  stared  back  unwaveringly  also,  but  with  a 
sort  of  cold  interest. 

"The  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe"  was  not  a  title 
to  be  found  in  Burke  or  Debrett.  It  was  a  fine  irony 
of  the  Head's  own.  The  peerage  recorded  him  as  a 
marquis  and  added  several  lesser  attendant  titles. 

To  be  born  the  Head  of  the  House  is  a  weighty  and 
awe-inspiring  thing — one  is  called  upon  to  be  an  exam 
ple. 

"I  am  not  sure  what  I  am  an  example  of — or  to,"  he 
said,  on  one  occasion,  in  his  light,  rather  cold  and  de 
tached  way,  "which  is  why  I  at  times  regard  myself  in 
that  capacity  with  a  slightly  ribald  lightness." 

A  reckless  young  woman  once  asked  him: 

"Are  you  as  wicked  as  people  say  you  are?" 

"I  really  don't  know.  It  is  so  difficult  to  decide,"  he 
answered.  "Perhaps  I  am  as  wicked  as  I  know  how  to 
be.  And  I  may  have  painful  limitations  or  I  may  not." 

He  had  reached  the  age  when  it  was  safe  to  apply  to 
him  that  vague  term  "elderly,"  and  marriage  might  have 
been  regarded  as  imperative.  But  he  had  remained  un 
married  and  seemed  to  consider  his  abstinence  entirely 
his  own  affair. 


FOREWORD  vii 

Courts  and  capitals  knew  him,  and  his  opportunities 
were  such  as  gave  him  all  ease  as  an  onlooker.  He  saw 
closely  those  who  sat  with  knit  brows  and  cautiously 
hovering  hand  at  the  great  chess-board  which  is  formed  by 
the  map  of  Europe. 

As  a  statesman  or  a  diplomat  he  would  have  gone' 
far,  but  he  had  been  too  much  occupied  with  Life  as  an^ 
entertainment,  too  self-indulgent  for  work  of  any  order* 
Having,  however,  been  born  with  a  certain  type  of  brain, 
it  observed  and  recorded  in  spite  of  him,  thereby  adding 
flavour  and  interest  to  existence.  But  that  was  all. 

Texture  and  colour  gave  him  almost  abnormal  pleas 
ure.  For  this  reason,  perhaps,  he  was  the  most  per 
fectly  dressed  man  in  London. 

It  was  at  a  garden-party  that  he  first  saw  Feather. 
When  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  he  was  talking  to  a  group  of 
people  and  he  stopped  speaking.  Some  one  standing 
quite  near  him  said  afterwards  that  he  had,  for  a  second 
or  so,  became  pale — almost  as  if  he  saw  something  which 
frightened  him.  He  was  still  rather  pale  when  Feather 
lifted  her  eyes  to  him.  But  he  had  not  talked  to  her  for 
fifteen  minutes  before  he  knew  that  there  was  no  real 
reason  why  he  should  ever  again  lose  his  colour  at  the 
sight  of  her.  He  had  thought,  at  first,  there  was. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  an  acquaintance  which  gave 
rise  to  much  argument  over  tea-cups  regarding  the  degree 
of  Coombe's  interest  in  her.  Remained,  however,  the  fact 
that  he  managed  to  see  a  great  deal  of  her.  Feather  was 
guilelessly  doubtless  concerning  him.  She  was  quite  sure 
that  he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  very  practically  aware 
that  the  more  men  of  the  class  of  the  Head  of  the  House 
of  Coombe  who  came  in  and  out  of  the  slice  of  a  house, 


x  FOREWORD 

flowers.  It  became  an  established  fact  that  the  house 
hold  had  not  fallen  to  pieces,  and  its  frequenters  gradually 
returned  to  it,  wearing,  indeed,  the  air  of  people  who  had 
never  really  remained  away  from  it. 

As  a  bird  in  captivity  lives  in  its  cage  and,  perhaps, 
believes  it  to  be  the  world,  Eobin  lived  in  her  nursery. 
She  was  put  to  bed  and  taken  up,  she  was  fed  and  dressed 
in  it,  and  once  a  day  she  was  taken  out  of  it  downstairs 
and  into  the  street.  That  was  all. 

It  is  a  somewhat  portentous  thing  to  realise  that  a 
newborn  human  creature  can  only  know  what  it  is  taught. 
To  Robin  the  Lady  Downstairs  was  merely  a  radiant  and 
beautiful  being  of  whom  one  might  catch  a  glimpse  through 
a  door,  or  if  one  pressed  one's  face  against  the  window 
pane  at  the  right  moment.  On  the  very  rare  occasions 
when  the  Lady  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  day- 
nursery,  Eobin  stood  and  stared  with  immense  startled 
eyes  and  answered  in  a  whisper  the  banal  little  questions- 
put  to  her. 

So  she  remained  unaware  of  mothers  and  unaware  of 
affection.  She  never  played  with  other  children.  An 
drews,  her  nurse — as  behooved  one  employed  in  a  house 
about  which  there  "was  talk"  bore  herself  with  a  lofty 
and  exclusive  air. 

"My  rule  is  to  keep  myself  to  myself,"  she  said  in  the 
kitchen,  "and  to  look  as  if  I  was  the  one  that  would 
turn  up  noses,  if  noses  was  to  be  turned  up.  There's 
those  that  would  snatch  away  their  children  if  I  let  Eobin 
begin  to  make  up  to  them." 

But  one  morning,  when  Eobin  was  watching  some 
quarrelsome  sparrows,  an  old  acquaintance  surprised  An 
drews  by  appearing  in  the  Gardens  and  engaged  her  in  a 


FOREWORD  xi 

conversation  so  delightful  that  Robin  was  forgotten  to 
the  extent  of  being  allowed  to  follow  her  sparrows  round  a 
clump  of  shrubbery  out  of  sight. 

It  was  while  she  watched  them  that  she  heard  foot 
steps  that  stopped  near  her.  She  looked  up.  A  big  boy 
in  Highland  kilts  and  bonnet  and  sporan  was  standing  by 
her.  He  spread  and  curved  his  red  mouth,  then  began 
to  run  and  prance  round  in  a  circle,  capering  like  a 
Shetland  pony  to  exhibit  at  once  his  friendliness  and  his 
prowess.  After  a  minute  or  two  he  stopped,  breathing 
fast  and  glowing. 

"My  pony  in  Scotland  does  that.  His  name  is  Chieftain. 
I'm  called  Donal.  What  are  you  called?" 

"Robin/'  she  answered,  her  lips  and  voice  trembling 
with  joy.  He  was  so  beautiful. 

They  began  to  play  together  while  Andrews'  friend  re 
counted  intimate  details  of  a  country  house  scandal. 

Donal  picked  leaves  from  a  lilac  bush.  Robin  learned 
that  if  you  laid  a  leaf  flat  on  the  seat  of  a  bench  you  could 
prick  beautiful  patterns  on  the  leaf's  greenness.  Donal 
had — in  his  rolled  down  stocking — a  little  dirk.  He  did 
the  decoration  with  the  point  of  this  while  Robin  looked 
on,  enthralled. 

Through  what  means  children  so  quickly  convey  to  each 
other  the  entire  history  of  their  lives  is  a  sort  of  occult 
secret.  Before  Donal  was  taken  home,  Robin  knew  that 
he  lived  in  Scotland  and  had  been  brought  to  London  on  a 
visit,  that  his  other  name  was  Muir,  that  the  person  he 
called  "mother"  was  a  woman  who  took  care  of  him.  He 
spoke  of  her  quite  often. 

"I  will  bring  one  of  my  picture-books  to-morrow,"  he 
said  grandly.  "Can  you  read  at  all?" 


xii  FOKEWOKD 

"No,"  answered  Robin,  adoring  him.  "What  are  pic 
ture  books?" 

"Haven't  you  any  ?"  he  blurted  out. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  glowing  blueness  of  his  and 
said  quite  simply,  "I  haven't  anything." 

His  old  nurse's  voice  came  from  the  corner  where  she 
sat. 

"I  must  go  back  to  Nanny,"  he  said,  feeling,  somehow, 
as  if  he  had  been  running  fast.  "I'll  come  to-morrow  and 
bring  two  picture  books." 

He  put  his  strong  little  eight-year-old  arms  round  her 
and  kissed  her  full  on  the  mouth.  It  was  the  first  time, 
for  Eobin.  Andrews  did  not  kiss.  There  was  no  one 
else. 

"Don't  you  like  to  be  kissed?"  said  Donal,  uncertain 
because  she  looked  so  startled  and  had  not  kissed  him 
back. 

"Kissed,"  she  repeated,  with  a  small  caught  breath. 
"Ye — es."  She  knew  now  what  it  was.  It  was  being 
kissed.  She  drew  nearer  at  once  and  lifted  up  her  face  as 
sweetly  and  gladly  as  a  flower  lifts  itself  to  the  sun. 
"Kiss  me  again,"  she  said,  quite  eagerly.  And  this  time, 
she  kissed  too.  When  he  ran  quickly  away,  she  stood 
looking  after  him  with  smiling,  trembling  lips,  uplifted, 
joyful— wondering  and  amazed. 

The  next  morning  Andrews  had  a  cold  and  her  younger 
sister  Anne  was  called  in  to  perform  her  duties.  The 
doctor  pronounced  the  cold  serious,  and  Andrews  was  con 
fined  to  her  bed.  Hours  spent  under  the  trees  reading 
were  entirely  satisfactory  to  Anne.  And  so,  for  two  weeks, 
the  soot-sprinkled  London  square  was  as  the  Garden  of 
Eden  to  Donal  and  Robin. 


FOKEWOKD  xiii 

In  her  fine,  aloof  way,  Helen  Muir  had  learned  much  in 
her  stays  in  London  and  during  her  married  life — in  the 
exploring  of  foreign  cities  with  her  husband.  She  was 
not  proud  of  the  fact  that  in  the  event  of  the  death  of 
Lord  Coombe's  shattered  and  dissipated  nephew  her  son 
would  become  heir  presumptive  to  Coombe  Court.  She 
had  not  asked  questions  about  Coombe.  It  had  not  been 
necessary.  Once  or  twice  she  had  seen  Feather  by  chance. 
She  was  to  see  her  again — by  Feather's  intention. 

With  Donal  prancing  at  her  side,  Mrs.  Muir  went  to  the 
Gardens  to  meet  the  child  Nanny  had  described  as  "a 
bit  of  witch  fire  dancing — with  her  colour  and  her  big 
silk  curls  in  a  heap,  and  Donal  staring  at  her  like  a  young 
man  at  a  beauty." 

Robin  was  waiting  behind  the  lilac  bushes  and  her  nurse 
was  already  deep  in  the  mystery  of  "Lady  Audley." 

"There  she  is!"  cried  Donal,  as  he  ran  to  her.  "My 
mother  has  come  with  me.  This  is  Robin,  mother! 
This  is  Robin." 

Her  exquisiteness  and  physical  brilliancy  gare  Mrs. 
Muir  something  not  unlike  a  slight  shock.  Oh!  No 
wonder,  since  she  was  like  that.  She  stooped  and  kissed 
the  round  cheek  delicately.  She  took  the  little  hand 
and  they  walked  round  the  garden,  then  sat  on  a 
bench  and  watched  the  children  "make  up"  things  to 
play. 

A  victoria  was  driving  past.  Suddenly  a  sweetly  hued 
figure  spoke  to  the  coachman.  "Stop  here,"  she  said. 
"I  want  to  get  out." 

Robin's  eyes  grew  very  round  and  large  and  filled  with 
a  worshipping  light. 

"It  is,"  she  gasped,   "the   Lady   Downstairs!" 


xiv  FOREWORD 

Feather  floated  near  to  the  seat  and  paused,  smiling. 
"Where  is  your  nurse,  Robin  ?"  she  asked. 

"She  is  only  a  few  yards  away,"  said  Mrs.  Muir. 

"So  kind  of  you  to  let  Robin  play  with  your  boy. 
Don't  let  her  bore  you.  I  am  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless." 

There  was  a  little  silence,  a  delicate  little  silence. 

"I  recognized  you  as  Mrs.  Muir  at  once,"  added  Fea 
ther,  unperturbed  and  smiling  brilliantly.  "I  saw  your 
portrait  at  the  Grovenor." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Muir,  gently. 

"I  wanted  very  much  to  see  your  son;  that  was  why  I 
came." 

"Yes,"  still  gently  from  Mrs.  Muir. 

"Because  of  Coombe,  you  know.  We  are  such  old 
friends.  How  queer  that  the  two  little  things  have  made 
friends  too.  I  didn't  know." 

She  bade  them  good-bye  and  strayed  airily  away. 

And  that  night  Donal  was  awakened,  was  told  that 
"something"  had  happened,  that  they  were  to  go  back  to 
Scotland.  He  was  accustomed  to  do  as  he  was  told.  He 
got  out  of  bed  and  began  to  dress,  but  he  swallowed  very 
hard. 

"I  shall  not  see  Robin,"  he  said  in  a  queer  voice.  "She 
won't  find  me  when  she  goes  behind  the  lilac  bushes.  She 
won't  know  why  I  don't  come."  Then,  in  a  way  that  was 
strangely  grown  up:  "She  has  no  one  but  me  to  re 
member." 

The  next  morning  a  small,  rose-coloured  figure  stood 
still  for  go  long  in  the  gardens  that  it  began  to  look  rigid 
and  some  one  said,  "I  wonder  what  that  little  girl  is 
waiting  for." 


FOREWORD  xv 

A  child  has  no  words  out  of  which  to  build  hopes  and 
fears.  Robin  could  only  wait  in  the  midst  of  a  slow 
dark  rising  tide  of  something  she  had  no  name  for.  Sud 
denly  she  knew.  He  was  gone!  She  crept  under  the 
shrubbery.  She  cried,  she  sobbed.  If  Andrews  had  seen 
her  she  would  have  said  she  was  "in  a  tantrum."  But 
she  was  not.  Her  world  had  been  torn  away. 

Five  weeks  later  Feather  was  giving  a  very  little  dinner 
in  the  slice  of  a  house.  There  was  Harrowby,  a  good 
looking  young  man  with  dark  eyes,  and  the  Starling  who 
was  "emancipated"  and  whose  real  name  was  Miss  March. 
The  third  diner  was  a  young  actor  with  a  low,  veiled 
voice — Gerald  Vesey — who  adored  and  understood  Fea 
ther's  clothes. 

Over  coffee  in  the  drawing-room  Coombe  joined  them 
just  at  the  moment  that  Feather  was  "going  to  tell  them 
something  to  make  them  laugh/' 

"Robin  is  in  love!"  she  cried.  "She  is  five  years  old 
and  she  has  been  deserted  and  Andrews  came  to  tell  me  she 
can  neither  eat  nor  sleep.  The  doctor  says  she  has  had 
a  shock/' 

Coombe  did  not  join  in  the  ripple  of  laughter,  but  he 
looked  interested. 

"Robin  is  a  stimulating  name,"  said  Harrowby.  "Is  it 
too  late  to  let  us  see  her?" 

"They  usually  go  to  sleep  at  seven,  I  believe,"  remarked 
Coombe,  "but  of  course  I  am  not  an  authority." 

Robin*  was  not  asleep,  though  she  had  long  been  in  bed 
with  her  eyes  closed.  She  had  heard  Andrews  say  to  her 
sister  Anne: 

"Lord  Coombe's  the  reason.     She  does  not  want  her 


xvi  FOKEWOKD 

boy  to  see  or  speak  to  him,  so  she  whisked  him  back  to 
Scotland/' 

"Is  Lord  Coombe  as  bad  as  they  say?"  put  in  Anne, 
with  bated  breath. 

"As  to  his  badness/'  Robin  heard  Andrews  answer, 
"there's  some  that  can't  say  enough  against  him.  It's 
what  he  is  in  this  house  that  does  it.  She  won't  have 
her  boy  playing  with  a  child  like  Robin." 

Then — even  as  there  flashed  upon  Robin  the  revelation 
of  her  own  unfitness — came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

She  was  taken  up,  dressed  in  her  prettiest  frock  and 
led  down  the  narrow  stairway.  She  heard  the  Lady 
say: 

"Shake  hands  with  Lord  Coombe." 

Robin  put  her  hand  behind  her  back — she  who  had 
never  disobeyed  since  she  was  born ! 

"Be  pretty  mannered,  Miss  Robin  my  dear,"  Andrews 
instructed,  "and  shake  hands  with  his  Lordship." 

Each  person  in  the  little  drawing-room  saw  the  queer 
flame  in  the  child-face.  She  shrilled  out  her  words: 

"Andrews  will  pinch  me — Andrews  will  pinch  me! 
But— No— No !" 

She  kept  her  hands  behind  her  back  and  hatred  surged 
up  in  her  soul. 

In  spite  of  her  tender  years,  the  doctor  held  to  the 
theory  that  Robin  had  suffered  a  shock ;  she  must  be  taken 
away  to  be  helped  by  the  bracing  air  of  the  Norfolk  coast. 
Before  she  went,  workmen  were  to  be  seen  coming  in 
and  out  of  the  house.  When  she  returned  to  'London, 
she  was  led  into  rooms  she  had  never  been  in  before — 
light  and  airy  rooms  with  pretty  walls  and  furni 
ture. 

It  was  "a  whim  of  Coombe's,"  as  Feather    put  it,  that 


FOREWOKD  xvii 

she  should  no  longer  occupy  the  little  dog-kennels  of  nurs 
eries,  so  these  new  apartments  had  been  added  in  the 
rear.  A  whim  of  his  also  that  Andrews,  whose  disciplinary 
methods  included  pinching,  should  be  dismissed  and  re 
placed  by  Dowson,  a  motherly  creature  with  a  great  deal 
of  common  sense.  Kobin's  lonely  little  heart  opened  to  her 
new  nurse,  who  became  in  time  her  "Dowie." 

It  was  Dowson  who  made  it  clear  to  Lord  Coombe,  at 
length,  that  Eobin  had  reached  the  age  when  she  needed 
a  governess,  and  it  was  he  who  said  to  Feather  a  few  days 
later : 

"A  governess  will  come  here  to-morrow  at  eleven  o'clock. 
She  is  a  Mademoiselle  Valle.  She  is  accustomed  to  the 
education  of  young  children.  She  will  present  herself 
for  your  approval." 

"What  on  earth  can  it  matter?"  Feather  cried. 

"It  does  not  matter  to  you/'  he  answered.  "It  chances 
for  the  time  being  to  matter  to  me." 

Mademoiselle  Valle  was  an  intelligent,  mature  French 
woman,  with  a  peculiar  power  to  grasp  an  intricate  situa 
tion.  She  learned  to  love  the  child  she  taught — a  child 
so  strangely  alone.  As  time  went  on  she  came  to  know  that 
Eobin  was  to  receive  every  educational  advantage,  every 
instruction.  In  his  impersonal,  aloof  way  Coombe  was 
fixed  in  his  intention  to  provide  her  with  life's  defences. 
As  she  grew,  graceful  as  a  willow  wand,  into  a  girlhood 
startlingly  lovely,  she  learned  modern  languages,  learned 
to  dance  divinely. 

And  all  the  while  he  was  deeply  conscious  that  her  in 
fant  hatred  had  not  lessened — that  he  could  show  her  no 
reason  why  it  should. 

There  were  black  hours  when  she  was  in  deadly  peril 
from  a  human  beast,  mad  with  her  beauty.  Coombe  had 


xviii  FOKEWOKD 

almost   miraculously   saved  her,   but   her   detestation   of 
him  still  held. 

Her  one  thought — her  one  hope — was  to  learn — learn, 
so  that  she  might  make  her  own  living.  Mademoiselle 
Valle  supported  her  in  this,  and  Coombe  understood. 

In  one  of  the  older  London  squares  there  was  a  house 
upon  the  broad  doorsteps  of  which  Lord  Coombe  stood  of- 
tener  than  upon  any  other.  The  old  Dowager  Duchess  of 
Darte,  having  surrounded  herself  with  almost  royal  dig 
nity,  occupied  that  house  in  an  enforced  seclusion.  She 
was  a  confirmed  rheumatic  invalid,  but  her  soul  was  as 
strong  as  it  was  many  years  before,  when  she  had  given 
its  support  to  Coombe  in  his  unbearable  hours.  She  had 
poured  out  her  strength  in  silence,  and  in  silence  he  had 
received  it.  She  saved  him  from  slipping  over  the  verge 
of  madness. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  he  spoke  to  her  of  this — of 
the  one  woman  he  had  loved,  Princess  Alixe  of  X : 

"There  was  never  a  human  thing  so  transparently  pure, 
.and  she  was  the  possession  of  a  brute  incarnate.  She  shook 
with  terror  before  him.  He  killed  her." 

"I  believe  he  did,"  she  said,  unsteadily.  "He  was  not 
received  here  at  Court  afterward." 

"He  killed  her.  But  she  would  have  died  of  horror  if 
he  had  not  struck  her  a  blow.  I  saw  that.  I  was  in  at 
tendance  on  him  at  Windsor." 

"When  I  first  knew  you,"  the  Duchess  said  gravely. 

"There  was  a  night — I  was  young — young — when  I  found 

myself  face  to  face  with  her  in  the  stillness  of  the  wood.    I 

went  quite  mad  for  a  time.     I  threw  myself  face  downward 

on  the  earth  and  sobbed.     She  knelt  and  prayed  for  her 


FOREWOKD  xix 

own  soul  as  well  as  mine.  I  kissed  the  hem  of  her  dress 
and  left  her  standing — alone." 

After  a  silence  he  added: 

"It  was  the  next  night  that  I  heard  her  shrieks.  Then 
she  died." 

The  Duchess  knew  what  else  had  died :  the  high  adven 
ture  of  youth  and  joy  of  life  in  him. 

On  a  table  beside  her  winged  chair  were  photographs  of 
two  women,  who,  while  obviously  belonging  to  periods  of 
some  twenty  years  apart,  were  in  face  and  form  so  singu 
larly  alike  that  they  might  have  been  the  same  person. 

One  was  the  Princess  Alixe  of  X and  the  other — 

Feather. 

"The  devil  of  chance,"  Coombe  said,  "sometimes  chooses 
to  play  tricks.  Such  a  trick  was  played  on  me." 

It  was  the  photograph  of  Feather  he  took  up  and  set  a 
strange  questioning  gaze  upon. 

"When  I  saw  this,"  he  said,  "this — exquisitely  smil 
ing  at  me  in  a  sunny  garden — the  tomb  opened  under 
my  feet  and  I  stood  on  the  brink  of  it — twenty-five 
again." 

He  made  clear  to  her  certain  facts  which  most  persons 
would  have  ironically  disbelieved.  He  ended  with  the 
story  of  Robin. 

"I  am  determined,"  he  explained,  "to  stand  between  the 
child  and  what  would  be  inevitable.  Her  frenzy  of  desire 
to  support  herself  arises  from  her  loathing  of  the  posi 
tion  of  accepting  support  from  me.  I  sympathise  with  her 
entirely." 

"Mademoiselle  Valle  is  an  intelligent  woman,"  the  Duch 
ess  said.  "Send  her  to  me;  I  shall  talk  to  her.  Then 
she  can  bring  the  child." 

And  so  it  was  arranged  that  Robin  should  be  taken  into 


xxii  FOREWOKD 

Eobin  as  if  the  brief  ceremony  were  one  of  the  most  ordi 
nary  in  existence. 

They  danced  for  a  time  without  a  word.  She  wondered 
if  he  could  not  feel  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

"That — is  a  beautiful  waltz/'  he  said  at  last,  as  if  it 
were  a  sort  of  emotional  confidence. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.     Only,  "Yes." 

Once  round  the  great  ballroom,  twice,  and  he  gave  a 
little  laugh  and  spoke  again. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  question.    May  I?9 

"Yes." 

"Is  your  name  Eobin?" 

"Yes."     She  could  scarcely  breathe  it. 

"I  thought  it  was.  I  hoped  it  was — after  I  first  began 
to  suspect.  I  hoped  it  was." 

"It  is— it  is." 

"Did  we  once  play  together  in  a  garden?" 

"Yes— yes." 

Back  swept  the  years,  and  the  wonderful  happiness  be 
gan  again. 

In  the  shining  ballroom  the  music  rose  and  fell  and 
swelled  again  into  ecstasy  as  he  held  her  white  young 
lightness  in  his  arm  and  they  swayed  and  darted  and 
swooped  like  things  of  the  air — while  the  old  Duchess 
and  Lord  Coombe  looked  on  almost  unseeing  and  talked 
in  murmurs  of  Sarajevo. 


ROBIN 


ROBIN 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  a  soft  starlit  night  mystically  changing  into 
dawn  when  Donal  Muir  left  the  tall,  grave  house  on 
Eaton  Square  after  the  strangely  enchanted  dance 
given  by  the  old  Dowager  Duchess  of  Darte.  A 
certain  impellingness  of  mood  suggested  that  exercise 
would  be  a  good  thing  and  he  decided  to  walk  home.  It 
was  an  impellingness  of  body  as  well  as  mind.  He  had 
remained  later  than  the  relative  who  had  by  chance  been 
responsible  for  his  being  brought,  an  uninvited  guest,  to 
the  party.  The  Duchess  had  not  known  that  he  was  in 
London.  It  may  also  be  accepted  as  a  fact  that  to  this 
festivity  given  for  the  pleasure  of  Mrs.  Gareth-Law- 
less'  daughter,  she  might  not  have  chosen  to  assume  the 
responsibility  of  extending  him  an  invitation.  She  knew 
something  of  his  mother  and  had  sometimes  discussed 
her  with  her  old  friend,  Lord  Coombe.  She  admired 
Helen  Muir  greatly  and  was  also  much  touched  by  cer 
tain  aspects  of  her  maternity.  What  Lord  Coombe  had 
told  her  of  the  meeting  of  the  two  children  in  the 
Gardens,  of  their  innocent  child  passion  of  attraction 
for  each  other,  and  of  the  unchildlike  tragedy  their  en 
forced  parting  had  obviously  been  to  both  had  at  once 
deeply  interested  and  moved  her.  Coombe  had  only 
been  able  to  relate  certain  surface  incidents  connected 
with  the  matter,  but  they  had  been  incidents  not  easy 

1 


2  KOBIN 

to  forget  and  from  which  unusual  things  might  be  de 
duced.  No!  She  would  not  have  felt  prepared  to  be 
the  first  to  deliberately  throw  these  two  young  people 
across  each  other's  paths  at  this  glowing  moment  of 
their  early  blooming — knowing  as  she  did  Helen  Muir's 
strongly  anxious  desire  to  keep  them  apart. 

She  had  seen  Donal  Muir  several  times  as  the  years 
had  passed  and  had  not  been  blind  to  the  physical  beauty 
and  allure  of  charm  the  rest  of  the  world  saw  and  pro 
claimed  with  suitable  adjectives.  When  the  intimate 
friend  who  was  his  relative  appeared  with  him  in  her 
drawing-room  and  she  found  standing  before  her, 
respectfully  appealing  for  welcome  with  a  delightful 
smile,  this  quite  incomparably  good-looking  young  man, 
she  was  conscious  of  a  secret  momentary  disturbance 
and  a  recognition  of  the  fact  that  something  a  shade 
startling  had  happened. 

"When  a  thing  of  the  sort  occurs  entirely  without 
one's  aid  and  rather  against  one's  will — one  may  as 
well  submit,"  she  said  later  to  Lord  Coombe.  "Endeav 
ouring  to  readjust  matters  is  merely  meddling  with 
Pate  and  always  ends  in  disaster.  As  an  incident,  I 
felt  there  was  a  hint  in  it  that  it  would  be  the  part  of 
wisdom  to  leave  things  alone." 

She  had  watched  the  two  dancing  with  a  kind  of 
absorption  in  her  gaze.  She  had  seen  them  go  out  of 
the  room  into  the  conservatory.  She  had  known  exactly 
when  they  had  returned  and,  seeing  the  look  on  their 
young  faces,  had  understood  why  the  eyes  of  the  be 
holders  followed  them. 

When  Lord  Coombe  came  in  with  the  ominous  story 
of  the  assassination  at  Sarajevo,  all  else  had  been  swept 
from  her  mind.  There  had  been  place  in  her  being  for 
nothing  but  the  shock  of  a  monstrous  recognition.  She 


ROBIN  3 

had  been  a  gravely  conscious  looker-on  at  the  slow  but 
never  ceasing  growth  of  a  world  peril  for  too  many 
years  not  to  be  widely  awake  to  each  sign  of  its  develop 
ment. 

"Servia,  Russia,  Austria,  Germany.  It  will  form  a 
pretext  and  a  clear  road  to  France  and  England/'  Lord 
Coombe  had  said. 

"A  broad,  clear  road/7  the  Duchess  had  agreed  breath 
lessly — and,  while  she  gazed  before  her,  ceased  to  see 
the  whirl  of  floating  and  fluttering  butterfly-wings  of 
gauze  or  to  hear  the  music  to  whose  measure  they 
fluttered  and  floated. 

But  no  sense  of  any  connection  with  Sarajevo  dis 
turbed  the  swing  of  the  fox  trot  or  the  measure  of  the 
tango,  and  when  Donal  Muir  walked  out  into  the  sum 
mer  air  of  the  starlit  street  and  lifted  his  face,  because 
already  a  faint  touch  of  primrose  dawn  was  showing 
itself  on  the  eastern  sky,  in  his  young  world  there  was 
only  recognition  of  a  vague  tumult  of  heart  and  brain 
and  blood. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  he  was  thinking.  "What  have 
I  been  doing —  What  have  I  been  saying  ?  I've  been 
like  a  chap  in  a  dream.  I'm  not  awake  yet." 

All  that  he  had  said  to  the  girl  was  a  simple  fact. 
He  had  exaggerated  nothing.  If,  in  what  now 
seemed  that  long-ago  past,  he  had  not  been  a  sturdy, 
normal  little  lad  surrounded  by  love  and  friendliness, 
with  his  days  full  of  healthy  play  and  pleasure,  the  child 
tragedy  of  their  being  torn  apart  might  have  left  ugly 
marks  upon  his  mind,  and  lurked  there,  a  morbid  mem 
ory.  And  though,  in  time,  rebellion  and  suffering  had 
died  away,  he  had  never  really  forgotten.  Even  to  the 
cricket-playing,  larking  boy  at  Eton  there  had  now 
and  then  returned,  with  queer  suddenness,  recollections 


4  KOBIJST 

which  gave  him  odd  moments  of  resurrected  misery. 
They  passed  away,  but  at  long  intervals  they  came  back 
and  always  with  absolute  reality.  At  Oxford  the  inter 
vals  had  been  longer  but  a  certain  picture  was  one  whose 
haunting  never  lost  its  clearness.  It  was  a  vision  of  a 
colour-warm  child  kneeling  on  the  grass,  her  eyes  up 
lifted,  expressing  only  a  lonely  patience,  and  he  could 
actually  hear  her  humble  little  voice  as  she  said : 

"I — I  haven't  anything."  And  it  always  roused  him 
to  rage. 

Then  there  was  the  piteous  break  in  her  voice  when 
she  hid  her  eyes  with  her  arm  and  said  of  her  beast  of  a 
mother : 

"She— doesn't  like  me!" 

"Damn!  Damn!"  he  used  to  say  every  time  the 
thing  came  back.  "Oh!  damn! — damn!"  And  the 
expletive  never  varied  in  its  spontaneity. 


As  he  walked  under  the  primrose  sky  and  breathed 
in  the  faint  fragrant  stir  of  the  freshening  morning 
air,  he  who  had  always  felt  joyously  the  sense  of  life 
knew  more  than  ever  before  the  keen  rapture  of  living. 
The  springing  lightness  of  his  own  step  as  it  rang  on 
the  pavement  was  part  of  it.  It  was  as  though  he  were 
still  dancing  and  he  almost  felt  something  warm  and 
light  in  his  arm  and  saw  a  little  head  of  dark  silk  near 
his  breast. 

Throughout  his  life  he  had  taken  all  his  joys  to  his 
closest  companion  and  nearest  intimate — his  mother. 
Theirs  had  not  been  a  common  life  together.  He  had 
not  even  tried  to  explain  to  himself  the  harmony  and 


KOBItf  5 

gaiety  of  their  nearness  in  which  there  seemed  no  separ 
ation  of  years.  She  had  drawn  and  held  him  to  the 
the  wonder  of  her  charm  and  had  been  the  fine  flavour 
of  his  existence.  It  was  actually  true  that  he  had  so 
far  had  no  boyish  love  affairs  because  he  had  all  uncon 
sciously  been  in  love  with  the  beautiful  completeness  of 
her. 

Always  when  he  returned  home  after  festivities,  he 
paused  for  a  moment  outside  her  bedroom  door  because 
he  so  often  found  her  awake  and  waiting  to  talk  to  him 
if  he  were  inclined  to  talk — to  listen — to  laugh  softly — 
or  perhaps  only  to  say  good-night  in  her  marvel  of 
a  voice — a  marvel  because  its  mellow  note  held  such 
love. 

This  time  when,  after  entering  the  house  and  mount 
ing  the  stairs  he  reached  her  door,  he  found  it  partly 
open. 

"Come  in,"  he  heard  her  say.  "I  went  to  sleep  very 
early  and  awakened  half  an  hour  ago.  It  is  really 
morning." 

She  was  sitting  up  in  a  deep  chair  by  the  window. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,"  she  said  with  a  little  laugh. 
"And  then  kiss  me  and  go  to  bed." 

But  even  the  lovely,  faint  early  light  revealed  some 
thing  to  her. 

"You  walk  like  a  young  stag  on  the  hillside,"  she  said. 
"You  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep  at  all.  What  is  it?" 

He  sat  on  a  low  ottoman  near  her  and  laughed  a 
little  also. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  "but  I'm  wide  awake." 

The  English  summer  dawn  is  of  a  magical  clear  light 
and  she  could  see  him  well.  She  had  a  thrilled  feeling 
that  she  had  never  quite  known  before  what  a  beautiful 


6  KOBItf 

thing  he  was — how  perfect  and  shining  fair  in  his  boy 
manhood. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "you  won't  remember  perhaps — 
it's  a  queer  thing  that  I  should  myself — but  I  have 
never  really  forgotten.  There  was  a  child  I  played  with 
in  some  garden  when  I  was  a  little  chap.  She  was  a 
beautiful  little  thing  who  seemed  to  belong  to  nobody — " 

"She  belonged  to  a  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless/'  Helen 
interpolated. 

"Then  you  do  remember  ?" 

"Yes,  dear.  You  asked  me  to  go  to  the  Gardens  with 
you  to  see  her.  And  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  came  in  by 
chance  and  spoke  to  me." 

"And  then  we  had  suddenly  to  go  back  to  Scotland. 
I  remember  you  wakened  me  quite  early  in  the  morn 
ing — I  thought  it  was  the  middle  of  the  night."  He 
began  to  speak  rather  slowly  as  if  he  were  thinking  it 
over.  "You  didn't  know  that,  when  you  took  me  away, 
it  was  a  tragedy.  I  had  promised  to  play  with  her 
again  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had  deserted  her  hideously. 
It  was  not  the  kind  of  a  thing  a  little  chap  usually  feels 
— it  was  something  different — something  more.  And 
to-night  it  actually  all  came  back.  I  saw  her  again, 
mother." 

He  was  so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  take  in  her  in 
voluntary  movement. 

"You  saw  her  again!     Where?" 

"The  old  Duchess  of  Darte  was  giving  a  small  dance 
for  her.  Hallo  we  took  me — " 

"Does  the  Duchess  know  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  ?" 
Helen  had  a  sense  of  breathlessness. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  the  situation.  It  seems 
the  little  thing  insists  on  earning  her  own  living  and 


KOBIN  7 

she  is  a  sort  of  companion  and  secretary  to  the  Duchess. 
Mother,  she  is  just  the  same !" 

The  last  words  were  a  sort  of  exclamation.  As  he 
uttered  them,  there  came  back  to  her  the  day  when — a 
little  boy — he  had  seemed  as  though  he  were  speaking  as 
a  young  man  might  have  spoken.  Now  he  was  a  young 
man,  speaking  almost  as  if  he  were  a  little  boy — in 
voluntarily  revealing  his  exaltation. 

As  she  had  felt  half  frightened  years  before,  so  she 
felt  wholly  frightened  now.  He  was  not  a  little  boy 
any  longer.  She  could  not  sweep  him  away  in  her  arms 
to  save  him  from  danger.  Also  she  knew  more  of  the 
easy,  fashionably  accepted  views  of  the  morals  of  pretty 
Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless,  still  lightly  known  with  some 
cynicism  as  "Feather."  She  knew  what  Donal  did  not. 
His  relationship  to  the  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe 
made  it  unlikely  that  gossip  should  choose  him  as 
the  exact  young  man  to  whom  could  be  related  stories 
of  his  distinguished  relative,  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  and 
her  girl.  But  through  the  years  Helen  Muir  had  un 
avoidably  heard  things  she  thought  particularly  hide 
ous.  And  here  the  child  was  again  "just  the  same." 

"She  has  only  grown  up."  His  laugh  was  like  a 
lightly  indrawn  breath.  "Her  cheek  is  just  as  much 
like  a  rose  petal.  And  that  wonderful  little  look! 
And  her  eyelashes.  Just  the  same!  Do  girls  usually 
grow  up  like  that  ?  It  was  the  look  most.  It's  a  sort 
of  asking  and  giving — both  at  once." 

There  it  was!  And  she  had  nothing  to  say.  She 
could  only  sit  and  look  at  him — at  his  beautiful  youth 
all  alight  with  the  sudden  flame  of  that  which  can  set  a 
young  world  on  fire  and  sweep  on  its  way  either  carry 
ing  devastation  or  clearing  a  path  to  Paradise. 


8  KOBIN 

His  own  natural  light  unconsciousness  was  amazing. 
He  only  knew  that  he  was  in  delightful  high  spirits. 
The  dancing,  the  music,  the  early  morning  were,  he 
thought,  accountable  for  it. 

She  bent  forward  to  kiss  his  cheek  and  she  patted  his 
hand. 

"My  dear!  My  dear!"  she  said.  "How  you  have 
enjoyed  your  evening!" 

"There  never  was  anything  more  perfect,"  with  the 
light  laugh  again.  "Everything  was  delightful — the 
rooms,  the  music,  the  girls  in  their  pretty  frocks  like  a 
lot  of  flowers  tossed  about.  She  danced  like  a  bit  of 
thistledown.  I  didn't  know  a  girl  could  be  so  light. 
The  back  of  her  slim  little  neck  looks  as  fine  and  white 
and  soft  as  a  baby's.  I  am  so  glad  you  were  awake. 
Are  you  sure  you  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep  again  ?"  sud 
denly. 

"Not  in  the  least.  Look  at  the  sun  beginning  to 
touch  the  tips  of  the  little  white  clouds  with  rose.  That 
stir  among  the  leaves  of  the  plane  trees  is  the  first 
delicious  breath  of  the  morning.  Go  on  and  tell  me  all 
about  the  party." 

"It's  a  perfect  time  to  talk,"  he  laughed. 

And  there  he  sat  and  made  gay  pictures  for  her  of 
what  he  had  seen  and  done.  He  thought  he  was  giv 
ing  her  mere  detail  of  the  old  Duchess'  dance.  He  did 
not  know  that  when  he  spoke  of  new  tangos,  of  flowers, 
of  music  and  young  nymphs  like  tossed  blossoms,  he 
never  allowed  her  for  a  moment  to  lose  sight  of  Mrs. 
Gareth-Lawless'  girl.  She  was  the  light  floating  over 
his  vision  of  the  happy  youth  of  the  assembly — she  was 
the  centre — the  beginning  and  the  ending  of  it  all. 


CHAPTER  II 

IF  some  uncomplex  minded  and  even  moderately 
articulate  man  or  woman,  living  in  some  small, 
ordinary  respectable  London  house  and  going  about 
his  or  her  work  in  the  customary  way,  had  been 
prompted  by  chance  upon  June  29th,  1914,  to  begin  to 
keep  on  that  date  a  day-by-day  diary  of  his  or  her  ordi 
nary  life,  the  effects  of  huge  historic  events,  as  revealed 
by  the  every-day  incidents  to  be  noted  in  the  streets,  to 
be  heard  in  his  neighbours'  houses  as  well  as  among  his 
fellow  workers,  to  be  read  in  the  penny  or  half-penny 
newspapers,  would  have  resulted — if  the  record  had 
been  kept  faithfully  and  without  any  self-conscious  sense 
of  audience — between  1914  and  1918  in  the  gradual 
compiling  of  a  human  document  of  immense  historical 
value.  Compared  with  it,  the  diaries  of  Defoe  and 
Pepys  would  pale  and  be  flavourless.  But  it  must  have 
been  begun  in  June,  1914,  and  have  been  written  with 
the  casualness  of  that  commonplace  realism  which  is  the 
most  convincing  realism  of  all.  It  is  true  that  the 
expression  of  the  uncomplex  mind  is  infrequently  artic 
ulate,  but  the  record  which  would  bring  home  the  clear 
est  truth  would  be  the  one  unpremeditatedly  depicting 
the  effect  produced  upon  the  wholly  unprepared  and 
undramatic  personality  by  the  monstrous  drama,  as  the 
Second  Deluge  rose  for  its  apparent  overwhelming, 

carrying  upon  its  flood  old  civilisations  broken  from 

9 


10  •  ROBUST 

anchor  and  half  submerged  as  they  tossed  on  the  rising 
and  raging  waves.  Such  a  priceless  treasure  as  this 
might  have  been  the  quite  unliterary  and  unromantic 
diary  of  any — say,  Mr.  James  Simpson  of  any  house 
number  in  any  respectable  side  street  in  Regents  Park, 
or  St.  Johns  Wood  or  Hampstead.  One  can  easily 
Imagine  him,  sitting  in  his  small,  comfortable  parlour 
and  bending  over  his  blotting-pad  in  unilluminated 
cheerful  absorption  after  his  day's  work.  It  can  also 
without  any  special  intellectual  effort  be  imagined  that 
the  record  might  have  begun  with  some  such  seemingly 
unprophetic  entry  as  follows : — 

"June  29th,  1914.  I  made  up  my  mind  when  I  was 
at  the  office  to-day  that  I  would  begin  to  keep  a  diary. 
I  have  thought  several  times  that  I  would,  and  Harriet 
thinks  it  would  be  a  good  thing  because  we  should  have 
it  to  refer  to  when  there  was  any  little  dispute  about 
dates  and  things  that  have  happened.  To-night  seemed 
a  good  time  because  there  is  something  to  begin  the  first 
entry  with.  Harriet  and  I  spent  part  of  the  evening  in 
reading  the  newspaper  accounts  of  the  assassination  of 
the  Austrian  Archduke  and  his  wife.  There  seems  to 
be  a  good  deal  of  excitement  about  it  because  he  was  the 
next  heir  to  the  Austrian  throne.  The  assassination 
occurred  in  Bosnia  at  a  place  called  Sarajevo.  Craw- 
shaw,  whose  desk  is  next  to  mine  in  the  office,  believes  it 
will  make  a  nice  mess  for  the  Bosnians  and  Servians 
because  they  have  been  rather  troublesome  about  want 
ing  to  be  united  into  one  country  instead  of  two,  and 
called  Greater  Serbia.  That  seems  a  silly  sort  of 
reason  for  throwing  bombs  and  killing  people.  But 
foreigners  have  a  way  of  thinking  bombs  settle  every 
thing.  Harriet  brought  out  her  old  school  geography 
and  we  looked  up  Sarajevo  on  the  map  of  Austria- 


ROBIN  11 

Hungary.  It  was  hard  to  find  because  the  print  was 
small  and  it  was  spelt  Saraievo — without  any  j  in  it. 
It  was  just  on  the  line  between  Bosnia  and  Servia  and 
the  geography  said  it  was  the  chief  city  in  Bosnia. 
Harriet  said  it  was  a  queer  thing  how  these  places  on 
maps  never  seemed  like  real  places  when  you  looked 
them  up  and  just  read  their  names  and  yet  probably  the 
people  in  them  were  as  real  to  themselves  as  we  were, 
and  there  were  streets  in  them  as  real  as  Lupton  Street 
where  we  were  sitting,  finding  them  on  the  map  on 
the  sitting-room  table.  I  said  that  bombs  were  pretty 
real  things  and  the  sound  of  this  one  when  it  exploded 
seemed  to  have  reached  a  long  way  to  judge  from  the 
newspapers  and  the  talk  in  London.  Harriet  said  my 
putting  it  like  that  gave  her  a  queer  feeling — almost  as 
if  she  had  heard  it  and  it  had  made  her  jump.  Some 
how  it  seemed  something  like  it  to  me.  At  any  rate  we 
sat  still  a  minute  or  two,  thinking  it  over.  Then  Har 
riet  got  up  and  went  into  the  kitchen  and  made  some 
nice  toasted  cheese  for  our  supper  before  we  went  to 
bed." 

Men  of  the  James  Simpson  type  were  among  the  many 
who  daily  passed  Coombe  House  on  their  way  to  and 
from  their  office  work.  Some  of  them  no  doubt  caught 
sight  of  Lord  Coombe  himself  as  he  walked  or  drove 
through  the  entrance  gates.  Their  knowledge  of  him 
was  founded  upon  rumoured  stories,  repeated  rather 
privately  among  themselves.  He  was  a  great  swell  and 
there  weren't  many  shady  things  he  hadn't  done  and 
didn't  know  the  ins  and  outs  of,  but  his  remoteness  from 
their  own  lives  rendered  these  accepted  legends  scarcely 
prejudicial.  The  perfection  of  his  clothes,  and  his  un 
usual  preservation  of  physical  condition  and  good  looks, 
'also  his  habit  of  the  so-called  "week-end"  continental 


12  EOBIX 

journeys,  were  the  points  chiefly  recalled  by  the  inciden 
tal  mention  of  his  name. 

If  James  Simpson,  on  his  way  home  to  Lupton  Street 
with  his  friend  Crawshaw,  chanced  to  see  his  lordship's 
car  standing  before  his  door  a  few  days  after  the  bomb 
throwing  in  Sarajevo,  he  might  incidentally  have  re 
ferred  to  him  somewhat  in  this  wise: — 

"As  we  passed  by  Coombe  House  the  Marquis  of 
Coombe  came  out  and  got  into  his  car.  There  were 
smart  leather  valises  and  travelling  things  in  it  and  a 
rug  or  so,  as  if  he  was  going  on  some  journey.  He  is  a 
fine  looking  man  for  one  that's  lived  the  life  he  has  and 
reached  his  age.  I  don't  see  how  he's  done  it,  myself. 
When  I  said  to  Crawshaw  that  it  looked  as  if  he  was 
going  away  for  the  week  end,  Crawshaw  said  that  per 
haps  he  was  taking  Saturday  to  Monday  off  to  run  over 
to  talk  to  the  Kaiser  and  old  Franz  Josef  about  the 
Sarajevo  business,  and  he  might  telephone  to  the  Czar 
about  it  because  he's  intimate  with  them  all,  and  the 
whole  lot  seem  to  be  getting  mixed  up  in  the  thing  and 
writing  letters  and  sending  secret  telegrams.  It  seems 
to  be  turning  out,  as  Crawshaw  said  it  would,  into  a 
nice  mess  for  Servia.  Austria  is  making  it  out  that  the 
assassination  really  was  committed  to  stir  up  trouble, 
and  says  it  wasn't  done  just  by  a  crazy  anarchist,  but 
by  a  secret  society  working  for  its  own  ends.  Craw 
shaw  came  in  to  supper  and  we  talked  it  all  over. 
Harriet  gave  us  cold  beef  and  pickled  onions  and  beer, 
and  we  looked  at  the  maps  in  the  old  geography  again. 
We  got  quite  interested  in  finding  places.  Bosnia  and 
Servia  (it's  often  spelled  Serbia)  are  close  up  against 
Austria-Hungary,  and  Germany  and  Russia  are  close 
against  the  other  side.  They  can  get  into  each  other's 


ROBIN  13 

countries  without  much  travelling.  I  heard  to-day  that 
Russia  will  have  to  help  Servia  if  she  has  a  row  with 
Austria.  Crawshaw  says  that  will  give  Germany  the 
chance  she's  been  waiting  for  and  that  she  will  try  to  get 
through  Belgium  to  England.  He  says  she  hates 
England.  Harriet  began  to  look  pale  as  she  studied  the 
map  and  saw  how  little  Belgium  was  and  that  the  Chan 
nel  was  so  narrow.  She  said  she  felt  as  if  England  had 
been  silly  to  let  herself  get  so  slack  and  she  almost 
wished  she  hadn't  looked  at  the  geography.  She  said 
she  couldn't  help  thinking  how  awful  it  would  be  to  see 
the  German  army  marching  up  Regent  Street  and 
camping  in  Hyde  Park,  and  who  in  goodness'  name 
knew  what  they  might  do  to  people  if  they  hated  Eng 
land  so?  She  actually  looked  as  if  she  would  have 
cried  if  Crawshaw  and  I  hadn't  chaffed  her  and  made 
her  laugh  by  telling  her  we  would  join  the  army;  and 
Crawshaw  began  to  shoulder  arms  with  the  poker  and  I 
got  my  new  umbrella." 

In  this  domesticated  and  almost  comfortable  fashion 
did  the  greatest  tragedy  the  human  race  has  known  since 
the  beginning  of  the  world  gradually  prepare  its  first 
scenes  and  reveal  glimpses  of  itself,  as  the  curtain  of 
Time  was,  during  that  June,  slowly  raised  by  the  hand 
of  Fate. 

This  is  not  what  is  known  as  a  "war  story."  It  is 
not  even  a  story  of  the  War,  but  a  relation  of  incidents 
occurring  amidst  and  resulting  from  the  strenuous- 
ness  of  a  period  to  which  "the  War"  was  a  background 
so  colossal  that  it  dwarfed  all  events,  except  in  the 
minds  of  those  for  whom  such  events  personally  shook 
and  darkened  or  brightened  the  world.  Nothing  can 
dwarf  personal  anguish  at  its  moment  of  highest  power ; 


14  EOBIISr 

to  the  last  agony  and  despairing  terror  of  the  heart- 
wrung  the  cataclysm  of  earthquake,  tornado,  shipwreck 
is  but  the  awesome  back  drop  of  the  scene. 

Also — incidentally — the  story  is  one  of  the  transi 
tions  in,  and  convulsive  changes  of,  points  of  view  pro 
duced  by  the  convulsion  itself  which  flung  into  new  per 
spective  the  whole  surface  of  the  earth  and  the  races 
existing  upon  it. 

The  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe  had,  as  he  said, 
been  born  at  once  too  early  and  too  late  to  admit  of  any 
fixed  establishment  of  tastes  and  ideals.  His  existence 
had  been  passed  in  the  transition  from  one  era  to  another 
— the  Early  Victorian,  under  whose  disappearing  influ 
ences  he  had  spent  his  youth;  the  Late  Victorian  and 
Edwardian,  in  whose  more  rapidly  changing  atmosphere 
he  had  ripened  to  maturity.  He  had,  during  this  transi 
tion,  seen  from  afar  the  slow  rising  of  the  tidal  wave  of 
the  Second  Deluge;  and  in  the  summer  days  of  1914  he 
heard  the  first  low  roaring  of  its  torrential  swell,  and 
visualised  all  that  the  overwhelming  power  of  its  burst 
ing  flood  might  sweep  before  it  and  bury  forever  beneath 
its  weight. 

He  made  seemingly  casual  crossings  of  the  Channel 
and  journeys  which  were  made  up  of  the  surmounting 
of  obstacles,  and  when  he  returned,  brought  with  him  a 
knowledge  of  things  which  it  would  have  been  unwise 
to  reveal  carelessly  to  the  general  public.  The  mind  of 
the  general  public  had  its  parallel,  at  the  moment,  in 
the  temperature  of  a  patient  in  the  early  stages  of,  as  yet, 
undiagnosed  tyhoid  or  any  other  fever.  Restless 
excitement  and  spasmodic  heats  and  discomforts 
prompted  and  ruled  it.  Its  tendency  was  to  nervous 
discontent  and  suspicious  fearfulness  of  approaching, 
vaguely  formulated,  evils.  These  risings  of  temper- 


KOBLN"  15 

ature  were  to  be  seen  in  the  very  streets  and  shops. 
People  were  talking — talking — talking.  Ordinary 
people,  common  people,  all  kinds  of  classes.  The 
majority  of  them  did  not  know  what  they  were  talking 
about;  most  of  them  talked  either  uneducated,  fright 
ened  or  blustering  nonsense,  but  everybody  talked  more 
or  less.  Enormous  numbers  of  newspapers  were  bought 
and  nourished  about,  or  pored  over  anxiously.  Num 
bers  of  young  Germans  were  silently  disappearing  from 
their  places  in  shops,  factories  and  warehouses.  That 
was  how  Germany  showed  her  readiness  for  any  military 
happening.  Her  army  was  already  trained  and  could 
be  called  from  any  country  and  walk  in  life.  A  myste 
rious  unheard  command  called  it  and  it  was  obliged  to 
obey.  The  entire  male  population  of  England  had  not 
been  trained  from  birth  to  regard  itself  as  an  immense 
military  machine,  ready  at  any  moment  for  action.  The 
James  Simpson  type  of  Englishman  indulged  in  much 
discussion  of  the  pros  and  cons  of  enforced  military 
training  of  youth.  Germany's  well  known  contempt  of 
the  size  and  power  of  the  British  Army  took  on  an 
aspect  which  filled  the  James  Simpsons  with  rage. 
They  had  not  previously  thought  of  themselves  as  mar 
tial,  because  middle-class  England  was  satisfied  with  her 
belief  in  her  strength  and  entire  safety.  Of  course  she 
was  safe.  She  always  had  been.  Britannia  Rules  the 
Waves  and  the  James  Simpsons  were  sure  that  inciden 
tally  she  ruled  everything  else.  But  as  there  stole  up 
behind  the  mature  Simpsons  the  haunting  realization 
that,  if  England  was  "drawn  in"  to  a  war,  it  would  be 
the  young  Simpsons  who  must  gird  their  loins  and  go 
forth  to  meet  Goliath  in  his  armour,  with  only  the  sling 
and  stone  of  untrained  youth  and  valour  as  their 
weapon,  there  were  many  who  began  to  feel  that  even 


16  KOBIN 

inconvenient  drilling  and  discipline  might  have  been 
good  things. 

"There  is  something  quite  thrilling  in  going  about 
now/'  said  Feather  to  Coombe,  after  coming  in  from  a 
shopping  round,  made  in  her  new  electric  brougham. 
"One  doesn't  know  what  it  is,  but  it's  in  the  air.  You 
see  it  in  people's  faces.  Actually  shop  girls  give  one 
the  impression  of  just  having  stopped  whispering  to 
gether  when  you  go  into  a  place  and  ask  for  something. 
A  girl  who  was  trying  on  some  gloves  for  me — she  was 
a  thin  girl  with  prominent  watery  eyes — had  such  a 
frightened  look,  that  I  said  to  her,  just  to  see  what  she 
would  say — 'I  wonder  what  would  happen  to  the 
shops  if  England  got  into  war?'  She  turned  quite 
white  and  answered,  'Oh,  Madam,  I  can't  bear  to  think 
of  it.  My  favourite  brother's  a  soldier.  He's  such  a 
nice  big  fellow  and  we're  so  fond  of  him.  And  he's 
always  talking  about  it.  He  says  Germany's  not  going 
to  let  England  keep  out.  We're  so  frightened — mother 
and  me.'  She  almost  dropped  a  big  tear  on  my  glove. 
It  would  be  quite  exciting  if  England  did  go  in." 

"It  would,"  Coombe  answered. 

"London  would  be  crowded  with  officers.  All  sorts  of 
things  would  have  to  be  given  for  them — balls  and 
things." 

"Cannon  balls  among  other  things,"  said  Coombe. 

"But  we  should  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  cannon 
balls,  thank  goodness,"  exhilaration  sweeping  her  past 
unpleasant  aspects.  "One  would  be  sorry  for  the 
Tommies,  of  course,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst. 
But  I  must  say  army  and  navy  men  are  more  interest 
ing  than  most  civilians.  It's  the  constant  change  in 
their  lives,  and  their  having  to  meet  so  many  kinds  of 
people." 


ROBIN  17 

"In  actual  war,  men  who  are  not  merely  'Tommies' 
actually  take  part,"  Coombe  suggested.  "I  was  look 
ing  at  a  ball-room  full  of  them  the  night  after  the  news 
came  from  Sarajevo.  Fine,  well-set-up  youngsters 
dancing  with  pretty  girls.  I  could  not  help  asking  my 
self  what  would  have  happened  to  them  before  the  Ger 
man  army  crossed  the  Channel — if  they  were  not  able 
to  prevent  the  crossing.  And  what  would  happen  to 
the  girls  after  its  crossing,  when  it  poured  over  London 
and  the  rest  of  England  in  the  unbridled  rage  of 
drunken  victory." 

He  so  spoke  because  beneath  his  outward*  coldness 
he  himself  felt  a  secret  rage  against  this  lightness  which, 
as  he  saw  things,  had  its  parallel  in  another  order  of 
trivial  unawareness  in  more  important  places  and 
larger  brains.  Feather  started  and  drew  somewhat 
nearer  to  him. 

"How  hideous!  What  do  you  mean!  Where  was 
the  party?7'  she  asked. 

"It  was  a  small  dance  given  by  the  Duchess,  very 
kindly,  for  Robin,"  he  answered. 

"For  Robin!"  with  open  eyes  whose  incredulity  held 
irritation.  "The  old  Duchess  giving  parties  to  her 
'useful  companion'  girl!  What  nonsense!  Who  was 
there?"  sharply. 

"The  young  fellows  who  would  be  first  called  on  if 
there  was  war.  And  the  girls  who  are  their  relatives. 
Halwyn  was  there — and  young  Dormer  and  Layton — 
they  are  all  in  the  army.  The  cannon  balls  would  be 
for  them  as  well  as  for  the  Tommies  of  their  regiments. 
They  are  spirited  lads  who  wouldn't  slink  behind. 
They'd  face  things." 

Feather  had  already  forgotten  her  moment's  shock 
in  another  thought. 


18  ROBIN 

"And  they  were  invited  to  meet  Robin!  Did  they 
•dance  with  her?  Did  she  dance  much?  Or  did  she 
sit  and  stare  and  say  nothing  ?  What  did  she  wear  ?" 

"She  looked  like  a  very  young  white  rose.  She 
danced  continually.  There  was  always  a  little  mob 
about  her  when  the  music  stopped.  I  do  not  think  she 
sat  at  all,  and  it  was  the  young  men  who  stared.  The 
only  dance  she  missed — Kathryn  told  her  grandmother 
— was  the*  one  she  sat  out  in  the  conservatory  with 
Donal  Muir." 

At  this  Feather's  high,  thin  little  laugh  broke  forth. 

"He  turned  up  there?  Donal  Muir!"  She  struck 
her  hands  lightly  together.  "It's  too  good  to  be  true !" 

"Why  is  it  too  good  to  be  true?"  he  inquired  with 
out  enthusiasm. 

"Oh,  don't  you  see  ?  After  all  his  mother's  airs  and 
graces  and  running  away  with*  him  when  they  were  a 
pair  of  babies — as  if  Robin  had  the  plague.  I  was  the 
plague — and  so  were  you.  And  here  the  old  Duchess 
throws  them  headlong  at  each  other — in  all  their  full 
bloom — into  each  other's  arms.  I  did  not  do  it.  You 
didn't.  It  was  the  stuffiest  old  female  grandee  in 
London,  who  wouldn't  let  me  sweep  her  front  door-steps 
for  her — because  I'm  an  impropriety." 

She  asked  a  dozen  questions,  was  quite  humorous  over 
the  picture  she  drew  of  Mrs.  Muir's  consternation  at  the 
peril  her  one  ewe  lamb  had  been  led  into  by  her  highly 
revered  friend. 

"A  frightfully  good-looking,  spoiled  boy  like  that 
always  plunges  headlong  into  any  adventure  that  at 
tracts  him.  Women  have  always  made  love  to  him  and 
Robin  will  make  great  eyes,  and  blush  and  look  at  him 
from  under  her  lashes  as  if  she  were  going  to  cry  with 
joy — like  Alice  in  the  Ben  Bolt  song.  She'll  'weep  with 


EOBI^T  19 

delight  when  he  gives  her  a  smile  and  tremble  with  fear 
at  his  frown/  His  mother  can't  stop  it,  however 
furious  she  may  be.  Nothing  can  stop  that  sort  of 
thing  when  it  once  begins." 

"If  England  declares  war  Donal  Muir  will  have  more 
serious  things  to  do  than  pursue  adventures,"  was 
Coombe's  comment.  He  looked  serious  himself  as  he 
said  the  words,  because  they  brought  before  him  the 
bodily  strength  and  beauty  of  the  lad.  He  seemed 
suddenly  to  see  him  again  as  he  had  looked  when  he  was 
dancing.  And  almost  at  the  same  moment  he  saw  other 
scenes  than  ball-rooms  and  heard  sounds  other  than 
those  drawn  forth  by  musicians  screened  with  palms. 
He  liked  the  boy.  He  was  not  his  son,  but  he  liked 
him.  If  he  had  been  his  son,  he  thought — !  He  had 
been  through  the  monster  munition  works  at  Essen 
several  times  and  he  had  heard  technical  talks  of  inven 
tions,  the  sole  reason  for  whose  presence  in  the  world 
was  that  they  had  the  power  to  blow  human  beings  into 
unrecognisable,  ensanguined  shreds  and  to  tear  off  limbs 
and  catapult  them  into  the  air.  He  had  heard  these 
powers  talked  of  with  a  sense  of  natural  pride  in  achieve 
ment,  in  fact  with  honest  and  cheerful  self  gratulation. 

He  had  known  Count  Zeppelin  well  and  heard  his 
interesting  explanation  of  what  would  happen  to  a 
thickly  populated  city  on  to  which  bombs  were  dropped. 

But  Feather's  view  was  lighter  and  included  only 
such  things  as  she  found  entertaining. 

"If  there's  a  war  the  heirs  of  great  families  won't  be 
snatched  at  first,"  she  quite  rattled  on.  "There'll  be  a 
sort  of  economising  in  that  sort  of  thing.  Besides  he's 
very  young  and  he  isn't  in  the  Army.  He'd  have  to  go 
through  some  sort  of  training.  Oh,  he'll  have  time! 
And  there'll  be  so  much  emotion  and  excitement  and 


20  ROBIN 

talk  about  parting  forever  and  'This  may  be  the  last 
time  we  ever  meet'  sort  of  thing  that  every  boy  will  have 
adventure — and  not  only  boys.  When  I  warned  Robin, 
the  night  before  she  went  away,  I  did  not  count  on  war 
or  I  could  have  said  more — " 

"What  did  you  warn  her  of?" 

"Of  making  mistakes  about  the  men  who  would  make 
love  to  her.  I  warned  her  against  imagining  she  was  as 
safe  as  she  would  be  if  she  were  a  daughter  of  the  house 
she  lived  in.  I  knew  what  I  was  talking  about." 

"Did  she  ?"  was  Coombe's  concise  question. 

"Of  course  she  did — though  of  course  she  pretended 
not  to.  Girls  always  pretend.  But  I  did  my  duty  as  a 
parent.  And  I  told  her  that  if  she  got  herself  into  any 
mess  she  mustn't  come  to  me." 

Lord  Coombe  regarded  her  in  silence  for  a  moment  or 
so.  It  was  one  of  the  looks  which  always  made  her 
furious  in  her  small  way. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said  and  turned  his  back  and 
walked  out  of  the  room.  Almost  immediately  after  he 
had  descended  the  stairs  she  heard  the  front  door  close 
after  him. 

It  was  the  kind  of  thing  which  made  her  feel  her  ut 
ter  helplessness  against  him  and  which  enraged  all  the 
little  cat  in  her  being.  She  actually  ground  her  small 
teeth. 

"I  was  quite  right,"  she  said.  "It's  her  affair  to  take 
care  of  herself.  Would  he  want  her  to  come  to  him  in 
any  silly  fix  ?  I  should  like  to  see  her  try  it." 


CHAPTER  III 

ROBIN  sat  at  the  desk  in  her  private  room  and 
looked  at  a  key  she  held  in  her  hand.  She  had 
just  come  upon  it  among  some  papers.  She 
had  put  it  into  a  narrow  lacquered  box  when  she  ar 
ranged  her  belongings,  after  she  left  the  house  in  which 
her  mother  continued  to  live.  It  was  the  key  which 
gave  entrance  to  the  Gardens.  Each  householder  pos 
sessed  one.  She  alone  knew  why  she  rather  timidly 
asked  her  mother's  permission  to  keep  this  one. 

"One  of  the  first  things  I  seem  to  remember  is  watch 
ing  the  gardeners  planting  flowers,"  Eobin  had  said. 
"They  had  rows  of  tiny  pots  with  geraniums  and  lobelia 
in  them.  I  have  been  happy  there.  I  should  like  to  be 
able  to  go  in  sometimes  and  sit  under  the  trees.  If  you 
do  not  mind — " 

Feather  did  not  mind.  She  herself  was  not  in  the 
least  likely  to  be  seized  with  a  desire  to  sit  under  trees 
in  an  atmosphere  heavy  with  nursemaids  and  children. 

So  Robin  had  been  allowed  to  keep  the  key  and  until 
to-day  she  had  not  opened  the  lacquer  box.  Was  it 
quite  by  accident  that  she  had  found  it  ?  She  was  not 
quite  sure  it  was  and  she  was  asking  herself  questions, 
as  she  sat  looking  at  it  as  it  lay  in  her  palm. 

The  face  of  the  whole  world  had  changed  since  the 
night  when  she  had  sat  among  banked  flowers  and  palms 
and  ferns,  and  heard  the  splashing  of  the  fountain  and 
the  sound  of  the  music  and  dancing,  and  Donal  Muir's 

voice,  all  at  the  same  time.     That  which  had  happened 

21 


22  ROBIN 

had  made  everybody  and  everything  different ;  and,  be 
cause  she  lived  in  this  particular  house  and  saw  much  of 
special  people,  she  realised  that  the  growing  shudder 
in  the  life  about  her  was  only  the  first  convulsive  tremor 
of  an  earthquake.  The  Duchess  began  to  have  much 
more  for  her  to  do.  She  called  on  her  to  read  special 
articles  in  the  papers,  and  to  make  notes  and  find 
references.  Many  visitors  came  to  the  house  to  discuss, 
to  plan,  to  prepare  for  work.  A  number  of  good-look 
ing,  dancing  boys  had  begun  to  come  in  and  out  in  uni 
form,  and  with  eager  faces  and  a  businesslike  military 
air  which  oddly  transformed  them.  The  recalcitrant 
George  was  more  transformed  than  any  of  the  rest. 
His  eyes  looked  almost  fierce  in  their  anxious  intensity, 
his  voice  had  taken  on  a  somewhat  hard  defiant  ring.  It 
could  not  be  possible  that  he  had  ever  done  that  silly 
thing  by  the  fountain  and  that  she  had  splashed  him 
from  head  to  foot.  It  was  plain  that  there  were  young 
soldiers  who  were  straining  at  leashes,  who  were  rest 
less  at  being  held  back  by  the  bindings  of  red  tape,  and 
who  every  hour  were  hearing  things — true  or  untrue — 
which  filled  them  with  blind  fury.  As  days  passed 
Robin  heard  some  of  these  things — stories  from  Belgium 
— which  caused  her  to  stare  straight  before  her,  blanched 
with  horror.  It  was  not  only  the  slaughter  and  help 
lessness  which  pictured  itself  before  her — it  was  stories 
half  hinted  at  about  girls  like  herself — girls  who  were 
trapped  and  overpowered — carried  into  lonely  or  dark 
places  where  no  one  could  hear  them.  Sometimes 
George  and  the  Duchess  forgot  her  because  she  was  so 
quiet — people  often  forgot  everything  but  their  excite 
ment  and  wrath — and  every  one  who  came  in  to  talk, 
because  the  house  had  become  a  centre  of  activities,  was 


ROBIN"  23 

full  of  new  panics  or  defiances  or  rumours  of  happen 
ings  or  possibilities. 

The  maelstrom  had  caught  Robin  herself  in  its  whirl 
ing.  She  realised  that  she  had  changed  with  the  rest. 
She  was  no  longer  only  a  girl  who  was  looked  at  as  she 
passed  along  the  street  and  who  was  beginning  to  be 
happy  because  she  could  earn  her  living.  What  was 
every  girl  in  these  days  ?  How  did  any  girl  know  what 
lay  before  her  and  those  who  protected  the  land  she  lived 
in  ?  What  could  a  girl  do  but  try  in  some  way  to  help 
— in  any  way  to  help  the  fight  and  the  fighters.  She 
used  to  lie  awake  and  think  of  the  Duchess'  plans  and 
concentrate  her  thought  on  the  mastering  of  details. 
There  was  no  hour  too  early  or  too  late  to  find  her  ready 
to  spring  to  attention.  The  Duchess  had  set  her  prep 
arations  for  future  possibilities  in  train  before  other 
women  had  quite  begun  to  believe  in  their  existence. 
Lady  Lothwell  had  at  first  laughed  quite  gaily  at  cer 
tain  long  lists  she  found  her  mother  occupied  with — 
though  this,  it  is  true,  was  in  early  days. 

But  Robin,  even  while  whirled  by  the  maelstrom, 
could  not  cease  thinking  certain  vague  remote  thoughts. 
The  splashing  of  fountains  among  flowers,  and  the  sound 
of  music  and  dancing  were  far  away — but  there  was  an 
echo  to  which  she  listened  unconsciously  as  Donal  Muir 
did.  Something  she  gave  no  name  to.  But  as  the,  as 
yet  unheard,  guns  sent  forth  vibrations  which  reached 
far,  there  rose  before  her  pictures  of  columns  of  march 
ing  men — hundreds,  thousands,  young,  erect,  steady  and 
with  clear  eyes — marching  on  and  on — to  what — to 
what?  Would  every  man  go?  Would  there  not  be 
some  who,  for  reasons,  might  not  be  obliged — or  able — 
or  ready — until  perhaps  the,  as  yet  hoped  for,  sudden 


24  BOBIST 

end  of  the  awful  thing  had  come  ?  Surely  there  would 
be  many  who  would  be  too  young — or  whose  youth  could 
not  be  spared  because  it  stood  for  some  power  the  nation 
needed  in  its  future. 

She  had  taken  out  and  opened  the  lacquered  box  while 
thinking  these  things.  She  was  thinking  them  as  she 
looked  at  the  key  in  her  hand. 

"It  is  not  quiet  anywhere  now/'  she  said  to  herself. 
"But  there  will  be  some  corner  under  a  tree  in  the  Gar 
dens  where  it  will  seem  quiet  if  one  sits  quite  still  there. 
I  will  go  and  try." 

There  were  very  few  nursemaids  with  their  charges 
in  the  place  when  she  reached  it  about  an  hour 
later. 

The  military  element  filling  the  streets  engendered  a 
spirit  of  caution  with  regard  to  nursemaids  in  the  minds 
of  their  employers.  Even  those  who  were  not  young 
and  good-looking  were  somewhat  shepherded.  The  two 
or  three  quite  elderly  ones  in  the  Gardens  cast  serious 
glances  at  the  girl  who  walked  past  them  to  a  curve  in 
the  path  where  large  lilac  bushes  and  rhododendrons 
made  a  sort  of  nook  for  a  seat  under  a  tree. 

They  could  not  see  her  when  she  sat  down  and  laid 
her  book  beside  her  on  the  bench.  She  did  not  even 
open  it,  but  sat  and  looked  at  the  greenery  of  the  shrubs 
before  her.  She  was  very  still,  and  she  looked  as  if  she 
saw  more  than  mere  leaves  and  branches. 

After  a  few  minutes  she  got  up  slowly  and  went  to  a 
tall  bush  of  lilac.  She  plucked  several  leaves  and 
carried  them  back  to  her  bench,  somewhat  as  if 
she  were  a  girl  moving  in  a  dream.  Then,  with  a  tiny 
shadow  of  a  smile,  she  took  a  long  pin  from  under 
the  lapel  of  her  coat  and,  leaning  forward,  began  to 
prick  out  a  pattern  on  the  leaf  she  had  laid  on  the 


KOBIN  25 

wooden  seat.  She  was  in  the  midst  of  doing  it — had 
indeed  decorated  two  or  three — when  she  found  herself 
turning  her  head  to  listen  to  something.  It  was  a  quick, 
buoyant  marching  step — not  a  nursemaid's,  not  a  gar 
dener's,  and  it  was  coming  towards  her  corner  as  if 
with  intention — and  she  suddenly  knew  that  she  was 
listening  as  if  the  intention  concerned  herself.  This 
was  only  because  there  are  psychological  moments, 
moods,  conditions  at  once  physical  and  mental  when 
every  incident  in  life  assumes  the  significance  of  inten 
tion — because  unconsciously  or  consciously  one  is  wait 
ing. 

Here  was  a  crisp  tread  somehow  conveying  a  sug 
gestion  of  familiar  happy  eagerness.  The  tall  young 
soldier  who  appeared  from  behind  the  clump  of  shrubs 
and  stood  before  her  with  a  laughing  salute  had  evi 
dently  come  hurriedly.  And  the  hurry  and  laughter 
extraordinarily  brought  back  the  Donal  who  had  sprung 
upon  her  years  ago  from  dramatic  ambush.  It  was 
Donal  Muir  who  had  come. 

"I  saw  you  from  a  friend's  house  across  the  street," 
he  said.  "I  followed  you." 

He  made  no  apology  and  it  did  not  even  cross  her 
mind  that  apology  was  conventionally  necessary.  He 
sat  down  beside  her  and  his  effect — though  it  did 
not  express  itself  physically — was  that  of  one  who 
was  breathing  quickly.  The  clear  blueness  of  his  gaze 
seemed  to  enfold  and  cover  her.  The  wonderfulness 
of  him  was  the  surrounding  atmosphere  she  had  felt  as 
a  little  child. 

"The  whole  world  is  rocking  to  and  fro,"  he  said.  "It 
has  gone  mad.  We  are  all  mad.  There  is  no  time  to 
wait  for  anything." 

"I  know!     I  know!"   she  whispered,  because  her 


26  KOBEST 

pretty  breast  was  rising  and  falling,  and  she  had  scarcely 
breath  left  to  speak  with. 

Even  as  he  looked  down  at  her,  and  she  up  at  him, 
the  colour  and  laughter  died  out  of  him.  Some  suddenly 
returning  memory  brought  a  black  cloud  into  his  eyes 
and  made  him  pale.  He  caught  hold  of  both  her  hands 
and  pressed  them  quite  hard  against  his  bowed  face. 
He  did  not  kiss  them  but  held  them  against  his  cheek. 

"It  is  terrible,"  he  said. 

Without  being  told  she  knew  what  he  meant. 

"You  have  been,  hearing  new  horrible  things?"  she 
said.  What  she  guessed  was  that  they  were  the  kind 
of  things  she  had  shuddered  at,  feeling  her  blood  at  once 
hot  and  cold.  He  lifted  his  face  but  did  not  release  her 
hands. 

"At  my  friend's  house.  A  man  had  just  come  over 
from  Holland,"  he  shook  himself  as  if  to  dismiss  a 
nightmare.  "I  did  not  come  here  to  say  such  things. 
The  enormous  luck  of  catching  sight  of  you,  by  mere 
chance,  through  the  window  electrified  me.  I — I  came 
because  I  was  catapulted  here."  He  tried  to  smile 
and  managed  it  pretty  well.  "How  could  I  stay  when 
— there  you  were !  Going  into  the  same  garden !"  He 
looked  round  him  at  the  greenness  with  memory  awaken 
ing.  "It's  the  same  garden.  The  shrubs  have  grown 
much  bigger  and  they  have  planted  some  new  ones — 
but  it  is  the  same  garden."  His  look  came  back  to  her. 
"You  are  the  same  Robin,"  he  said  softly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  as  she  had  always  answered 
"yes"  to  him. 

"You  are  the  same  little  child,"  he  added  and  he 
lifted  her  hands  again,  but  this  time  he  kissed  them  as 
gently  as  he  had  spoken.  "God!  I'm  glad!"  And 


KOBIST  27 

that  was  said  softly,  too.  He  was  not  a  man  of  thirty 
or  forty — he  was  a  boy  of  twenty  and  his  whole  being 
was  vibrating  with  the  earthquake  of  the  world. 

That  he  vaguely  recognised  this  last  truth  revealed 
itself  in  his  next  words. 

"It  would  have  taken  me  six  months  to  say  this 
much  to  you — to  get  this  far — before  this  thing  be 
gan,"  he  said.  "I  daren't  have  run  after  you  in  the 
street.  I  should  have  had  to  wait  about  and  make 
calls  and  ask  for  invitations  to  places  where  I  might 
see  you.  And  when  we  met  we  should  have  been 
polite  and  have  talked  all  round  what  we  wanted  to  say. 
It  would  have  been  cheek  to  tell  you — the  second  time 
we  met — that  your  eyes  looked  at  me  just  as  they  did 
when  you  were  a  little  child.  I  should  have  had  to 
be  decently  careful  because  you  might  have  felt  shy. 
You  don't  feel  shy  now,  do  you?  No,  you  don't," 
in  caressing  conviction  and  appeal. 

"No — no."  There  was  the  note  of  a  little  mating 
bird  in  the  repeated  word. 

This  time  he  spread  one  of  her  hands  palm  upward 
on  his  own  larger  one.  He  looked  down  at  it  tenderly 
and  stroked  it  as  he  talked. 

"It  is  because  there  is  no  time.  Things  pour  in  upon 
us.  We  don't  know  what  is  before  us.  We  can  only 
be  sure  of  one  thing — that  it  may  be  death  or  wounds. 
I  don't  know  when  they'll  think  me  ready  to  be  sent 
out — or  when  they'll  be  ready  to  send  me  and  other 
fellows  like  me.  But  I  shall  be  sent.  I  am  sitting 
in  a  garden  here  with  you.  I'm  a  young  chap  and 
big  and  strong  and  I  love  life.  It  is  my  duty  as  a  man 
to  go  and  kill  other  young  chaps  who  love  it  as  much 
as  I  do.  And  they  must  do  their  best  to  kill  me.  'Gott 


28  KOBIN 

strafe  England/  they're  saying  in  Germany — I  under 
stand  it.  Many  a  time  it's  in  me  to  say,  'Gott  strafe 
Germany.' " 

He  drew  in  his  breath  sharply,  as  if  to  pull  himself 
together,  and  was  still  a  moment.  The  next  he  turned 
upon  her  his  wonderful  boy's  smile.  Suddenly  there 
was  trusting  appeal  in  it. 

"You  don't  mind  my  holding  your  hand  and  talking 
like  this,  do  you  ?  Your  eyes  are  as  soft  as — I've  seen 
fawns  cropping  among  the  primroses  with  eyes  that 
looked  like  them.  But  yours  understand.  You  don't 
mind  my  doing  this?"  he  kissed  her  palm.  "Because 
there  is  no  time." 

Her  free  hand  caught  at  his  sleeve. 
"No,"    she  Said.     "You're  going — you're   going?" 
"Yes,"  he  answered.     "And  you  wouldn't  hold  me 
back." 

"No!  No!  No!  No!"  she  cried  four  times. 
"Belgium!  Belgium!  Oh!  Belgium!"  And  she  hid 
her  eyes  on  his  sleeve. 

"That's  it — Belgium!  There  has  been  war  before, 
but  this  promises  from  the  outset  to  be  something  else. 
And  they're  coming  on  in  their  millions.  We  have 
no  millions — we  have  not  even  guns  and  uniforms 
enough,  but  we've  got  to  stop  them,  if  we  do  it  with 
our  bare  hands  and  with  walls  of  our  dead  bodies. 
That  was  how  Belgium  held  them  back.  Can  England 
wait?" 

"You  can't  wait !"  cried  Kobin.     "No  man  can  wait." 

How  he  glowed  as  he  looked  at  her ! 

"There.     That  shows  how  you  understand.     See! 

That's  what  draws  me.     That's  why,  when  I  saw  you 

through  the  window,  I  had  to  follow  you.     It  wasn't 

only  your  lovely  eyes  and  your  curtains  of  eyelashes 


ROBIN  29 

and  because  you  are  a  sort  of  rose.  It  is  you — you! 
Whatsoever  you  said,  I  should  know  the  meaning  of, 
and  what  I  say  you  will  always  understand.  It's  as 
if  we  answered  each  other.  That's  why  I  never  for 
got  you.  It's  why  I  waked  up  so  when  I  saw  you 
at  the  Duchess7."  He  tried  to  laugh,  but  did  not  quite 
succeed.  "Do  you  know  I  have  never  had  a  moment's 
real  rest  since  that  night — because  I  haven't  seen  you." 

"I — "  faltered  Robin,  "have  wondered  and  won 
dered — where  you  were." 

All  the  forces  of  nature  drew  him  a  little  nearer 
to  her — though  the  gardener  who  clumped  past  them 
dully  at  the  moment  only  saw  a  particularly  good- 
looking  young  soldier,  apparently  engaged  in  agreeable 
conversation  with  a  pretty  girl  who  was  not  a  nurse 
maid. 

"Did  you  come  here  because  of  that?"  he  asked 
with  frank  anxiety.  "Do  you  come  here  often  and 
was  it  just  chance  ?  Or  did  you  come  because  you  were 
wondering  ?" 

"I  didn't  exactly  know — at  first.  But  I  know  now. 
I  have  not  been  here  since  I  went  to  live  in  Eaton 
Square,"  she  gave  back  to  him.  Oh!  how  good  and 
beautiful  his  asking  eyes  were!  It  was  as  he  drew 
even  a  little  nearer  that  he  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
pricked  lilac  leaves  lying  on  the  bench  beside  her. 

"Did  you  do  those?"  he  said  suddenly  quite  low. 
"Did  you?" 

"Yes,"  as  low  and  quite  sweetly  unashamed.  "You 
taught  me — when  we  played  together." 

The  quick  emotion  in  his  flushing  face  could  scarcely 
be  described. 

"How  lovely — how  lovely  you  are!"  he  exclaimed, 
still  almost  under  his  breath.  "I — I  don't  know  how  to 


30  KOBIN 

say  what  I  feel — about  your  remembering.  You  little 
— little  thing!"  This  last  because  he  somehow 
strangely  saw  her  five  years  old  again. 

It  was  a  boy's  unspoiled,  first  love  making — the 
charming  outburst  of  young  passion  untrained  by  fa 
miliar  use  to  phrases.  It  was  like  the  rising  of  a 
Spring  freshet  and  had  the  same  irresistible  power. 

"May  I  have  them  ?  Will  you  give  them  to  me  with 
your  own  little  hand?" 

The  happy  glow  of  her  smiling,  as  she  picked  them 
up  and  laid  them,  one  by  one,  on  his  open  extended 
palm,  was  as  the  glow  of  the  smiling  of  young  Eve. 
The  dimples  playing  round  her  mouth  and  the  quiver 
of  her  lashes,  as  she  lifted  them  to  laugh  into  his  eyes, 
were  an  actual  peril. 

"Must  I  give  you  the  pin  too  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes — everything,"  he  answered  in  a  sort  of  help 
less  joy.  "I  would  carry  the  wooden  bench  away  with 
me  if  I  could.  But  they  would  stop  me  at  the  gate." 
They  were  obliged  to  treat  something  a  little  lightly  be 
cause  everything  seemed  tensely  tremulous. 

"Here  is  the  pin,"  she  said,  taking  it  from  under  the 
lapel  of  her  coat.  "It  is  quite  a  long  one."  She 
looked  at  it  a  moment  and  then  ended  in  a  whisper. 
"I  must  have  known  why  I  was  coming  here — because, 
you  see,  I  brought  the  pin."  And  her  eyelashes  lifted 
themselves  and  made  their  circling  shadows  again. 

"Then  I  must  have  the  pin.  And  it  will  be  a  talis 
man.  I  shall  have  a  little  flat  case  made  for  the  leaves 
and  the  sacred  pin  shall  hold  it  together.  When  I  go 
into  battle  it  will  keep  me  safe.  Bullets  and  bayonets 
will  glance  aside."  He  said  it,  as  he  laid  the  treasure 
away  in  his  purse,  and  he  did  not  see  her  face  as  he 
spoke  of  bullets  and  bayonets. 


KOBIN  31 

"I  am  a  Highlander,"  he  said  next  and  for  the  mo 
ment  he  looked  as  if  he  saw  things  far  away.  "In 
the  Highlands  we  believe  more  than  most  people  do. 
Perhaps  that's  why  I  feel  as  if  we  two  are  not  quite 
like  other  people, — as  if  we  had  been  something — I 
don't  know  what — to  each  other  from  the  beginning  of 
time — since  the  'morning  stars  first  sang  together.' 
I  don't  know  exactly  what  that  means,  or  how  stars 
sing — but  I  like  the  sound  of  it.  It  seems  to  mean 
something  I  mean  though  I  don't  know  how  to  say 
it."  He  was  not  in  the  least  portentous  or  solemn, 
but  he  was  the  most  strongly  feeling  and  real  creature 
she  had  ever  heard  speaking  to  her  and  he  swept  her 
along  with  him,  as  if  he  had  indeed  been  the  Spring 
freshet  and  she  a  leaf.  "I  believe,"  here  he  began  to 
speak  slowly  as  if  he  were  thinking  it  out,  athat  there 
was  something — that  meant  something — in  the  way  we 
two  were  happy  together  and  could  not  bear  to  be  parted 
— years  ago  when  we  were  nothing  but  children.  Do 
you  know  that,  little  chap  as  I  was,  I  never  stopped 
thinking  of  you  day  and  night  when  we  were  not 
playing  together.  I  couldn't!" 

"Neither  could  I  stop  thinking,"  said  Kobin.  "I 
had  dreams  about  seeing  your  eyes  looking  at  me. 
They  were  blue  like  clear  water  in  summer.  They  were 
always  laughing.  I  always  wanted  them  to  look  at 
me!  They — they  are  the  same  eyes  now,"  in  a  little 
rush  of  words. 

Their  blueness  was  on  hers — in  the  very  deeps  of 
their  uplifted  liquidity. 

"God!     I'm  glad!"  his  voice  was  on  a  hushed  note. 

There  has  never  been  a  limner  through  all  the  ages 
who  has  pictured — at  such  a  moment — two  pairs  of 
eyes  reaching,  melting  into,  lost  in  each  other  in  their 


32  ROBIN 

human  search  for  the  longing  soul  drawing  together 
human  things.  Hand  and  brush  and  colour  cannot 
touch  That  which  Is  and  Must  Be — in  its  yearning 
search  for  the  spirit  which  is  its  life  on  earth.  Yet 
a  boy  and  girl  were  yearning  towards  it  as  they  sat  in 
mere  mortal  form  on  a  bench  in  a  London  square.  And 
neither  of  them  knew  more  than  that  they  wondered 
at  and  adored  the  beauty  in  each  other's  eyes. 

"I  didn't  know  what  a  little  chap  I  was,"  he  &aid 
next.  "I'd  had  a  splendid  life  for  a  youngster  and  I 
was  big  for  my  age  and  ramping  with  health  and 
strength  and  happiness.  You  seemed  almost  a  baby  to 
me,  but — it  was  the  way  you  looked  at  me,  I  think — I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you,  and  please  you  and  make  you 
laugh.  You  had  a  red  little  mouth  with  deep  dimples 
that  came  and  went  near  the  corners.  I  liked  to  see 
them  twinkle." 

"You  told  me,"  she  laughed,  remembering.  "You 
put  the  point  of  your  finger  in  them.  But  you  didn't 
hurt  me,"  in  quick  lovely  reassuring.  "You  were  not 
a  rough  little  boy." 

"I  wouldn't  have  hurt  you  for  worlds.  I  didn't 
even  know  I  was  cheeky.  The  dimples  were  so  deep 
that  it  seemed  quite  natural  to  poke  at  them — like  a 
sort  of  game." 

"We  laughed  and  laughed.  It  was  a  sort  of  game.  I 
sat  quite  still  and  let  you  make  little  darts  at  them," 
Robin  assisted  him.  "We  laughed  like  small  crazy 
things.  We  almost  had  child  hysterics." 

The  dimples  showed  themselves  now  and  he  held 
himself  in  leash. 

"You  did  everything  I  wanted  you  to  do,"  he  said, 
"and  I  suppose  that  made  me  feel  bigger  and  bigger." 

"I  thought  you  were  big.     And  I  had  never  seen 


ROBIN  33 

anything  so  wonderful  before.  You  knew  everything  in 
the  world  and  I  knew  nothing.  Don't  you  remember," 
with  hesitation — as  if  she  wore  almost  reluctant  to 
recall  the  memory  of  a  shadow  into  the  brightness  of 
the  moment —  "I  told  you  that  I  had  nothing — and 
nobody?" 

All  rushed  back  to  him  in  a  warm  flow. 
"That  was  it,"  he  said.     "When  you  said  that  I  felt 
as  if  some  one  had  insulted  and  wronged  something  of 
my  own.     I   remember  I   felt  hot   and   furious.     I 
wanted  to  give  you  things  and  fight  for  you.     I — 
caught  you  in  my  arms  and  squeezed  you." 
"Yes,"  Robin  answered. 

"It  was  because  of — that  time  when  the  morning 
stars  first  sang  together,"  he  answered  smiling,  but  still 
as  real  as  before.  "It  wasn't  a  stranger  child  I  wanted 
to  take  care  of.  It  was  some  one  I  had — belonged  to 
— long — long  and  long.  I'm  a  Highlander  and  I  know 
it's  true.  And  there's  another  thing  I  know,"  with  a 
sudden  change  almost  to  boyish  fierceness,  "you  are  one 
of  the  things  I'm  going  to  face  cannon  and  bayonets 
for.  If  there  were  nothing  else  and  no  one  else  in 
England,  I  should  stand  on  the  shore  and  fight  until 
I  dropped  dead  and  the  whole  Hun  mass  surged  over 
me  before  they  should  reach  you." 
"Yes,"  whispered  Robin,  "I  know." 
They  both  realised  that  the  time  had  come  when 
they  must  part,  and  when  he  lifted  again  the  hand  near 
est  to  him,  it  was  with  the  gesture  of  one  who  had 
reached  the  moment  of  farewell. 

"It's  our  garden,"  he  said.  "It's  the  same  garden. 
Just  because  there  is  no  time — may  I  see  you  here 
again  ?  I  can't  go  away  without  knowing  that." 

"I  will  come,"  she  answered,  "whenever  the  Duchess 


34  EOBIJST 

does  not  need  me.  You  see  I  belong  to  nobody  but 
myself." 

"I  belong  to  people,"  he  said,  "but  I  belong  to 
myself  too."  He  paused  a  second  or  so  and  a  strange 
half  puzzled  expression  settled  in  his  eyes.  "It's 
only  fair  that  a  man  who's  looking  the  end  of  things 
straight  in  the  face  should  have  something  for  himself 
— to  himself.  If  it's  only  a  heavenly  hour  now  and 
then.  Before  things  stop.  There's  such  a  lot  of 
life — and  such  a  lot  to  live  for — forever  if  one  could. 
And  a  smash — or  a  crash — or  a  thrust — and  it's  over ! 
Sometimes  I  can  hardly  get  hold  of  it." 

He  shook  his  head  as  he  rose  and  stood  upright,  draw 
ing  his  splendid  young  body  erect. 

"It's  only  fair,"  he  said.  "A  chap's  so  strong  and 
— and  ready  for  living.  Everything's  surging  through 
one's  mind  and  body.  One  can't  go  out  without  having 
something — of  one's  own.  You'll  come,  won't  you — 
just  because  there's  no  time  ?  I — I  want  to  keep  look 
ing  into  your  eyes." 

"I  want  you  to  look  into  them,"  said  Eobin.     "I'll 


come." 


He  stood  still  a  moment  looking  at  her  just  as  she 
wanted  him  to  look.  Then  after  a  few  more  words  he 
bent  low  and  kissed  her  hands  and  then  stood  straight 
again  and  saluted  and  went  away. 


CHAPTER  IV, 

THERE  was  one  facet  of  the  great  stone  of  War 
upon  which  many  strange  things  were  written. 
They  were  not  the  things  most  discussed  or 
considered.  They  were  results — not  causes.  But  for 
the  stress  of  mental,  spiritual  and  physical  tempest-of- 
being  the  colossal  background  of  storm  created,  many 
of  them  might  never  have  happened;  but  the  conse 
quences  of  their  occurrence  were  to  touch  close,  search 
deep,  and  reach  far  into  the  unknown  picture  of  the 
World  the  great  War  might  leave  in  fragments  which 
could  only  be  readjusted  by  centuries  of  time. 

The  interested  habit  of  observation  of,  and  re 
flection  on,  her  kind  which  knew  no  indifferences,  in 
the  mind  of  the  Duchess  of  Darte,  awakened  by  stages 
to  the  existence  of  this  facet  and  to  the  moment  of  the 
writings  thereupon. 

"It  would  seem  almost  as  if  Nature — Fate — had 
meant  to  give  a  new  impulse  to  the  race — to  rouse  hu 
man  creatures  to  new  moods,  to  thrust  them  into  places 
where  they  see  new  things.  Men  and  women  are 
being  dragged  out  of  their  self-absorbed  corners  and 
stirred  up  and  shaken.  Emotions  are  being  roused  in 
people  who  haven't  known  what  a  real  emotion  was. 
Middle-aged  husbands  and  wives  who  had  sunk  into 
comfortable  acceptance  of  each  other  and  their  boys  and 
girls  are  being  dragged  out  of  bed,  as  it  were,  and  wak 
ened  up  and  made  to  stand  on  their  feet  and  face 
unbelievable  possibilities.  If  you  have  boys  old  enough 

35 


36  EOBIN 

to  be  soldiers  and  girls  old  enough  to  be  victims — 
your  life  makes  a  sort  of  volte  face  and  everyday, 
worldly  comforts  and  successes  or  little  failures  drop 
out  of  your  line  of  sight,  and  change  their  values. 
Mothers  are  beginning  to  clutch  at  their  sons ;  and  even 
self-centred  fathers  and  selfish  pretty  sisters  look  at  their 
male  relatives  with  questioning,  with  a  hint  of  respect 
or  even  awe  in  it.  Perhaps  the  women  feel  it  more 
than  the  men.  Good-looking,  light-minded,  love-making 
George  has  assumed  a  new  aspect  to  his  mother  and 
to  Kathryn.  They're  secretly  yearning  over  him.  He 
has  assumed  a  new  aspect  to  me.  I  yearn  over  him 
myself.  He  has  changed — he  has  suddenly  grown  up. 
Boys  are  doing  it  on  every  hand." 

"The  youngest  youngster  vibrates  with  the  shock  of 
cannon  firing,  even  though  the  sound  may  not  be  near 
enough  to  be  heard,"  answered  Coombe.  "We're  all 
vibrating  unconsciously.  We  are  shuddering  con 
sciously  at  the  things  we  hear  and  are  mad  to  put  a 
stop  to,  before  they  go  further." 

"Innocent  little  villages  full  of  homes  torn  and 
trampled  under  foot  and  burned !"  the  Duchess  almost 
cried  out.  "And  worse  things  than  that — worse  things ! 
And  the  whole  monstrosity  growing  more  huge  and 
throwing  out  new  and  more  awful  tentacles  every 
day." 

"Every  hour.  No  imagination  has  yet  conceived 
what  it  may  be." 

"That  is  why  the  poor  human  things  are  clutching 
at  each  other,  and  finding  values  and  attractions  where 
they  did  not  see  them  before.  Colonel  Marion  and 
his  wife  were  here  yesterday.  He  is  a  stout  man  over 
fifty  and  has  a  red  face  and  prominent  eyes.  His 
wife  has  been  so  occupied  with  herself  and  her  children 


KOBIN  37 

that  she  had  almost  forgotten  he  existed.  She  looked 
at  and  listened  to  him  as  if  she  were  a  bride." 

"I  have  seen  changes  of  that  sort  myself,"  said 
Coombe.  "He  is  more  alive  himself.  He  has  begun 
to  be  of  importance.  And  men  like  him  have  been 
killed  already — though  the  young  ones  go  first." 

"The  young  ones  know  that,  and  they  clutch  the 
most  frantically.  That  is  what  I  am  seeing  in  young 
eyes  everywhere.  Mere  instinct  makes  it  so — mere  un 
controllable  instinct  which  takes  the  form  of  a  sort  of 
desperateness  at  facing  the  thousand  chances  of  death 
before  they  have  lived.  They  don't  know  it  isn't  actual 
fear  of  bullets  and  shrapnel.  Sometimes  they're  afraid 
it's  fear  and  it  makes  them  sick  at  themselves  and  de 
termined  to  grin  and  hide  it.  But  it  isn't  fear — it's 
furious  Nature  protesting." 

"There  are  hasty  bridals  and  good-bye  marriages 
being  made  in  all  ranks,"  Coombe  put  in.  "They  are 
inevitable." 

"God  help  the  young  things — those  of  them  who 
never  meet  again — and  perhaps,  also,  some  of  those  who 
do.  The  nation  ought  to  take  care  of  the  children. 
If  there  is  a  nation  left,  God  knows  they  will  be  needed," 
the  Duchess  said.  "One  of  my  footmen  who  'joined  up' 
has  revealed  an  unsuspected  passion  for  a  housemaid 
he  used  to  quarrel  with,  and  who  seemed  to  detest  him. 
I  have  three  women  in  my  household  who  have  soldier 
lovers  in  haste  to  marry  them.  I  shall  give  them  my 
blessing  and  take  care  of  the  wives  when  they  are  left 
behind.  One  can  be  served  by  old  men  and  married 
women — and  one  can  turn  cottages  into  small  orphan 
ages  if  the  worst  happens." 

There  was  a  new  vigour  in  her  splendid  old  face  and 
body. 


38  KOBIN 

"There  is  a  reason  now  why  I  am  the  Dowager 
Duchess  of  Darte,"  she  went  on,  "and  why  I  have 
money  and  houses  and  lands.  There  is  a  reason  why 
I  have  lived  when  it  sometimes  seemed  as  if  my  use 
fulness  was  over.  There  are  uses  for  my  money — 
for  my  places — for  myself.  Lately  I  have  found  my 
self  saying,  as  Mordecai  said  to  Esther,  'Who  knowest 
whether  thou  art  not  come  to  the  kingdom  for  such  a 
time  as  this.'  A  change  is  taking  place  in  me 
too.  I  can  do  more  because  there  is  so  much  more  to 
do.  I  can  even  use  my  hands  better.  Look  at 
them." 

She  held  them  out  that  he  might  see  them — her 
beautiful  old-ivory  fingers,  so  long  stiffened  by  rheuma 
tism.  She  slowly  opened  and  shut  them. 

"I  can  move  them  more — I  have  been  exercising  them 
and  having  them  rubbed.  I  want  to  be  able  to  knit 
and  sew  and  wait  on  myself  and  perhaps  on  other 
people.  Because  I  have  been  a  rich,  luxurious  old 
woman  it  has  not  occurred  to  me  that  there  were  rheu 
matic  old  women  who  were  forced  to  do  things  because 
they  were  poor — the  things  I  never  tried  to  do.  I  have 
begun  to  try." 

She  let  her  hands  fall  on  her  lap  and  sat  gazing 
up  at  him  with  a  rather  strange  expression. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  doing?"  she  said. 
"I  have  been  praying  to  God — for  a  sort  of  miracle. 
In  their  terror  people  are  beginning  to  ask  their  Deity 
for  things  as  they  have  never  done  it  before.  We  are 
most  of  us  like  children  waking  in  horror  of  the  black 
night  and  shrieking  for  some  one  to  come — some  one 
— any  one !  Each  creature  cries  out  to  his  own  Deity 
— the  God  his  own  need  has  made.  Most  of  us  are 
doing  it  in  secret — half  ashamed  to  let  it  be  known. 


EOBIN  39 

We  are  abject  things.  Mothers  and  fathers  are  doing 
it — young  lovers  and  husbands  and  wives." 

"What  miracle  are  you  asking  for?" 

"For  power  to  do  things  I  have  not  done  for  years. 
I  want  to  walk — to  stand — to  work.  If  under  the 
stress  of  necessity  I  begin  to  do  all  three,  my  doctors 
will  say  that  mental  exaltation  and  will  power  have 
caused  the  change.  It  may  be  true,  but  mental  ex 
altation  and  will  power  are  things  of  the  soul  not  of  the 
body.  Anguish  is  actually  forcing  me  into  a  sort  of 
practical  belief.  I  am  trying  to  'have  faith  even  as  a 
grain  of  mustard  seed7  so  that  I  may  say  unto  my  moun 
tain,  'Kemove  hence  to  yonder  place  and  it  shall  be  re 
moved.'  v 

"  'The  things  which  I  do,  ye  shall  do  also  and  even 
greater  things  than  these  shall  ye  do.' '  Coombe  re 
peated  the  words  deliberately.  "I  heard  an  earnest 
middle-aged  dissenter  preach  a  sermon  on  that  text  a 
few  days  ago." 

"What  ?" — his  old  friend  leaned  forward.  "Are  you 
going  to  hear  sermons  ?" 

"I  am  one  of  the  children,  I  suppose.  Though  I 
do  not  shriek  aloud,  probably  something  shrieks  within 
me.  I  was  passing  a  small  chapel  and  heard  a  singular 
voice.  I  don't  know  exactly  why  I  went  into  the  place, 
but  when  I  sat  down  inside  I  felt  the  tension  of  the  at 
mosphere  at  once.  Every  one  looked  anxious  or  terri 
fied.  There  were  pale  faces  and  stony  or  wild  eyes. 
It  did  not  seem  to  be  an  ordinary  service  and  voices 
kept  breaking  out  with  spasmodic  appeals,  'Almighty 
God,  look  down  on  us !'  'Oh,  Christ,  have  mercy !'  'Oh, 
God,  save  us !'  One  woman  in  black  was  rocking  back 
wards  and  forwards  and  sobbing  over  and  over  again, 
'Oh,  Jesus !  Jesus !  Oh,  Lord  Jesus !'  " 


40  KOBnsr 

"Part  of  her  body  and  soul  was  lying  done  to  death 
in  some  field — or  by  some  roadside,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"She  could  not  pray — she  could  only  cry  out.  I  can 
hear  her,  'Oh,  Lord  Jesus!' ' 

Later  came  the  morning  when  the  changed  George 
came  to  say  good-bye.  He  was  wonderfully  good- 
looking  in  his  khaki  and  seemed  taller  and  more  square 
of  jaw.  He  made  a  few  of  the  usual  young  jokes 
which  were  intended  to  make  things  cheerful  and  to 
treat  affectionate  fears  lightly,  but  his  good-natured 
blue  eye  held  a  certain  deadly  quiet  in  its  depths. 

His  mother  and  Kathryn  were  with  him,  and  it  was 
while  they  were  absorbed  in  anxious  talk  with  the 
Duchess  that  he  walked  over  to  where  Robin  sat  and 
stood  before  her. 

'Will  you  come  into  the  library  and  let  me  say  some 
thing  to  you  ?  I  don't  want  to  go  away  without  saying 
it,"  he  put  it  to  her. 

The  library  was  the  adjoining  room  and  Robin 
rose  and  went  with  him  without  any  comment  or  ques 
tion.  Already  the  time  had  come  when  formalities 
had  dropped  away  and  people  did  not  ask  for  trivial 
explanations.  The  pace  of  events  had  become  too 
rapid. 

"There  are  a  lot  of  chances  when  a  man  goes  out — 
that  he  won't  come  back,"  he  said,  still  standing  after 
she  had  taken  a  place  in  the  window-seat  he  guided 
her  to.  "There  are  not  as  many  as  one's  friends  can't 
help  thinking — but  there  are  enough  to  make  him  feel 
he'd  like  to  leave  things  straight  when  he  goes.  What 
I  want  you  to  let  me  say  is,  that  the  minute  I  had  made 
a  fool  of  myself  the  night  of  the  dance,  I  knew  what 
an  ass  I  had  been  and  I  was  ready  to  grovel." 

Robin's  lifted  face  was  quite  gentle.     Suddenly  she 


KOBItf  41 

was  thinking  self-reproachingly,  "Oh,  poor  boy — poor 
boy!" 

"I  flew  into  a  temper  and  would  not  let  you,"  she 
answered  him.  "It  was  temper — but  there  were  things 
you  didn't  know.  It  was  not  your  fault  that  you 
didn't."  The  square,  good-natured  face  flushed  with 
relief,  and  George's  voice  became  even  slightly  un 
steady. 

"That's  kind  of  you,"  he  said,  "it's  Mnd  and  I'm 
jolly  grateful.  Things  mean  a  lot  just  now — with  all 
one's  people  in  such  a  state  and  trying  so  pluckily  to 
hide  it.  I  just  wanted  to  make  sure  that  you  knew 
that  I  knew  that  the  thing  only  happened  because  I 
was  a  silly  idiot  and  for  no  other  reason.  You  will 
believe  me,  won't  you,  and  won't  remember  it  if  you 
ever  remember  me  ?" 

"I  shall  remember  you — and  it  is  as  if — that  had 
never  happened  at  all." 

She  put  out,  as  she  got  up,  such  a  kind  hand  that 
he  grasped  it  almost  joyously. 

"You  have  made  it  awfully  easy  for  me.  Thank 
you,  Miss  Lawless."  He  hesitated  a  second  and  then 
dropped  his  voice.  "I  wonder  if  I  dare — I  wonder  if  it 
would  be  cheek — and  impudence  if  I  said  something 
else?" 

"Scarcely  anything  seems  cheek  or  impudence  now," 
Robin  answered  with  simple  sadness.  "Nothing  ordi 
nary  seems  to  matter  because  everything  is  of  so  much 
importance." 

"I  feel  as  if  what  I  wanted  to  say  was  one  of  the 
things  that  are  important.  I  don't  know  what — older 
people — or  safe  ones — would  think  about  it,  but — " 
He  broke  off  and  began  again.  "To  us  young  ones 
who  are  facing —  It's  the  only  big  thing  that's  left 


42  EOBItf 

us — in  our  bit  of  the  present.  We  can  only  be  sure  of 
to-day—" 

"Yes — yes,"  Eobin  cried  out  low.  "Only  to-day — 
just  to-day."  She  even  panted  a  little  and  George, 
looking  into  her  eyes,  knew  that  he  might  say  anything, 
because  for  a  reason  she  was  one  of  the  girls  who  in 
this  hour  could  understand. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  where  our  house  is,"  he 
said  quite  quickly.  "It  is  one  of  those  in  the  Square 
— facing  the  Gardens.  I  might  have  played  with  you 
there  when  I  was  a  little  chap — but  I  don't  think  I 
did." 

"JSTobody  did  but  Donal,"  she  said,  quickly  also. 
How  did  she  know  that  he  was  going  to  say  something 
to  her  about  Donal  ? 

"I  gave  him  the  key  to  the  Gardens  tha.t  day,"  he  hur 
ried  on.  "I  was  at  the  window  with  him  when  he 
saw  you.  I  understood  in  a  minute  when  I  saw  his 
face  and  he'd  said  half  a  dozen  words  to  me.  I  gave 
him  my  key.  He  has  got  it  now."  He  actually 
snatched  at  both  her  hands  and  gripped  them.  It 
was  a  grip  and  his  eyes  burned  through  a  sort  of  sudden 
moisture.  "We  can't  stay  here  and  talk.  But  I 
couldn't  not  say  it !  Oh,  I  say,  be  good  to  him !  You 
would,  if  he  had  only  a  day  to  live  because  some  damned 
German  bullet  had  struck  him.  You're  life — you're 
youngness — you're  to-day!  Don't  say  'No'  to  any 
thing  he  asks  of  you — for  God's  sake,  don't." 

"I'd  give  him  my  heart  in  his  two  hands,"  gasped 
Robin.  "I  couldn't  give  him  my  soul  because  it  was 
always  his." 

"God  take  care  of  the  pair  of  you — and  be  good  to 
the  rest  of  us,"  whispered  George,  wringing  her  hands 
bard  and  dropping  them. 


KOBIN  43 

That  was  how  he  went  away. 

A  few  weeks  later  he  was  lying,  a  mangled  object,  in 
a  field  in  Flanders.  One  of  thousands — living,  laugh 
ing,  good  as  honest  bread  is  good ;  the  possible  passer-on 
of  life  and  force  and  new  thinking  for  new  generations 
— one  of  hundreds  of  thousands — one  of  millions  be 
fore  the  end  came — nice,  healthy,  normal-minded 
George,  son  and  heir  of  a  house  of  decent  nobles. 


CHAPTER  V 

AKD  still  youth  marched  away,  and  England 
seemed  to  swarm  with  soldiers  and,  at  times, 
to  hear  and  see  nothing  but  marching  music  and 
marching  feet,  though  life  went  on  in  houses,  shops, 
warehouses  and  offices,  and  new  and  immense  activities 
evolved  as  events  demanded  them.  Many  of  the  new 
activities  were  preparations  for  the  comfort  and  care 
of  soldiers  who  were  going  away,  and  for  those  who 
would  come  back  and  would  need  more  care  than  the 
others.  Women  were  doing  astonishing  work  and  re 
vealing  astonishing  power  and  determination.  The 
sexes  mingled  with  a  businesslike  informality  unknown 
in  times  of  peace.  Lovely  girls  went  in  and  out  of 
their  homes,  and  from  one  quarter  of  London  to  an 
other  without  question.  They  walked  with  a  brisk 
step  and  wore  the  steady  expression  of  creatures  with 
work  in  view.  Slim  young  war-widows  were  to  be  seen 
in  black  dresses  and  veiled  small  hats  with  bits  of 
white  crape  inside  their  brims.  Sometimes  their  little 
faces  were  awful  to  behold,  but  sometimes  they  wore  a 
strained  look  of  exaltation. 

The  Dowager  Duchess  of  Darte  was  often  absent 
from  Eaton  Square.  She  was  understood  to  be  prov 
ing  herself  much  stronger  than  her  friends  had  sup 
posed  her  to  be.  She  proved  it  by  doing  an  extraor 
dinary  amount  of  work.  She  did  it  in  her  house  in 
Eaton  Square — in  other  people's  houses,  in  her  various 
estates  in  the  country,  where  she  prepared  her  villagers 

44 


ROBIN  45 

and  tenants  for  a  future  in  which  every  farm  house  and 
cottage  must  be  as  ready  for  practical  service  as  her 
own  castle  or  manor  house.  Darte  Norham  was  no 
longer  a  luxurious  place  of  residence  but  a  potential 
hospital  for  wounded  soldiers;  so  was  Barons  Court 
and  the  beautiful  old  Dower  House  at  Mai  worth. 

Sometimes  Robin  was  with  her,  but  oftener  she  re 
mained  at  Eaton  Square  and  wrote  letters  and  saw  busy 
people  and  carried  out  lists  of  orders. 

It  was  not  every  day  or  evening  that  she  could  easily 
find  time  to  go  out  alone  and  make  her  way  to  the 
Square  Gardens  and  in  fact  it  was  not  often  to  the 
Gardens  she  went.  There  were  so  many  dear  places 
where  trees  grew  and  made  quiet  retreats — all  the  parks 
and  heaths  and  green  suburbs — and  everywhere  pairs 
walked  or  sat  and  talked,  and  were  frankly  so  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  throb  of  their  own  existences  that  they 
had  no  interest  in,  or  curiosity  concerning,  any  other 
human  beings. 

"Ought  I  to  ask  you  to  come  and  meet  me — as  if 
you  were  a  little  housemaid  meeting  her  life-guards 
man?"  Donal  had  said  feverishly  the  second  time 
they  met. 

A  sweet  flush  ran  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  and 
even  showed  itself  on  the  bit  of  round  throat  where  her 
dress  was  open. 

"Yes,  you  ought,"  she  answered.  "There  are  no 
little  housemaids  and  life-guardsmen  now.  It  seems 
as  if  there  were  only — people." 

The  very  sound  of  her  voice  thrilled  him — every 
thing  about  her  thrilled  him — the  very  stuff  her  plain 
frock  was  made  of,  the  small  hat  she  wore,  her  way 
of  moving  or  quiet  sitting  down  near  him,  but  most 
of  all  the  lift  of  her  eyes  to  his — because  there  was 


46  KOBUvT 

no  change  in  it  and  the  eyes  expressed  what  they  had 
expressed  when  they  had  first  looked  at  him.  It  was  a 
thing  which  moved  him  to-day  exactly  as  it  had  moved 
him  when  he  was  too  young  to  explain  its  meaning  and 
appeal.  It  was  the  lovely  faith  and  yearning  accept 
ance  of  him  as  a  being  whose  perfection  could  not  be 
questioned.  There  was  in  it  no  conscious  beguiling 
flattery  or  appraisement — it  was  pure  acceptance  and 
sweet  waiting  for  what  he  had  to  give.  He  sometimes 
found  himself  trembling  with  his  sense  of  its  simple 
unearthliness. 

Few  indeed  were  the  people  who  at  this  time  were 
wholly  normal.  The  whole  world  seemed  a  great 
musical  instrument,  overstrung  and  giving  out  pre 
viously  unknown  harmonies  and  inharmonies.  Amid 
the  thunders  of  great  crashing  discords  the  individual 
note  was  almost  unheard — but  the  individual  note  con 
tinued  its  vibrations. 

The  tone  which  expressed  Donal  Muir — in  common 
with  many  others  of  his  age  and  sex — was  a  novel  and 
abnormal  one.  His  being  no  longer  sang  the  healthy 
human  song  of  mere  joy  in  life  and  living.  A  knowl 
edge  of  cruelty  and  brutal  force,  of  helplessness  and 
despair,  grew  in  him  day  by  day.  Causes  for  gay 
good  cheer  and  laughter  were  swept  away,  leaving  in 
their  places  black  facts  and  needs  to  gaze  at  with  hard 
eyes. 

"Do  you  see  how  everything  has  stopped — how  noth 
ing  can  go  on  ?"  he  said  to  Eobin  on  their  second  meet 
ing  in  the  Gardens.  "The  things  we  used  to  fill  our 
time  and  amuse  ourselves  with — dancing  and  tennis 
and  polo  and  theatres  and  parties — how  jolly  and  all 
right  they  were  in  their  day,  but  how  futile  they  seem 


ROBIN  47 

just  now.  How  could  one  even  stand  talk  of  them! 
There  is  only  one  thing." 

The  blue  of  his  eyes  grew  dark. 

"It  is  as  if  a  gigantic  wall  were  piling  itself  up 
between  us  and  Life,"  he  went  on.  "That  is  how  I 
see  it — a  wall  piling  itself  higher  every  hour.  It's 
built  of  dead  things  and  maimed  and  tortured  ones. 
It's  building  itself  of  things  you  can't  speak  of.  It 
stands  between  all  the  world  and  living — mere  living. 
We  can't  go  on  till  we've  stormed  it  and  beaten  it  down 
— or  added  our  bodies  to  it.  If  it  isn't  beaten  down  it 
will  rise  to  heaven  itself  and  shut  it  out — and  that  will 
be  the  end  of  the  world."  He  shook  his  head  in  sudden 
defiant  bitterness.  "If  it  can't  be  beaten  down,  better 
the  world  should  come  to  an  end." 

Robin  put  out  her  hand  and  caught  his  sleeve. 

"It  will  be  beaten  down,"  she  cried.  "You — you 
— and  others  like  you — " 

"It  will  be,"  he  said.  "And  it's  because,  when  men 
read  the  day's  news,  almost  every  single  one  of  them 
feels  something  leaping  up  in  him  that  seems  strong 
enough  to  batter  it  to  earth  single-handed." 

But  he  gently  put  out  his  own  hand  and  took  in  it 
the  slim  gloved  one  and  looked  down  at  it,  as  if  it  were 
something  quite  apart  and  wonderful — rather  as  if 
hands  were  rare  and  he  had  not  often  seen  one  before. 

There  was  much  sound  of  heavy  traffic  on  the  streets. 
The  lumbering  of  army  motor  trucks  and  vans,  the 
hurry  of  ever-passing  feet  and  vehicles,  changed  the 
familiar  old-time  London  roar,  which  had  been  as 
that  of  low  and  distant  thunder,  into  the  louder  rum 
bling  of  a  storm  which  had  drawn  nearer  and  was 
spending  its  fury  within  the  city's  streets  themselves. 


48  EOBItf 

Just  at  this  moment  there  arose  the  sound  of  some 
gigantic  loaded  thing,  passing  with  unearthly  noises, 
and  high  above  it  pierced  the  shrilling  of  fifes. 

Kobin  glanced  about  the  empty  garden. 

"The  noise  seems  to  shut  us  in.  How  deserted  the 
Gardens  look.  I  feel  as  if  we  were  in  another  world. 
We  are  shut  in — and  shut  out,"  she  whispered. 

He  whispered  also.  He  still  looked  down  at  the 
slim  gloved  hand  as  if  it  had  some  important  connection 
with  the  moment. 

"We  have  so  few  minutes  together,"  he  said.  "And 
I  have  thought  of  so  many  things  I  must  say  to  you. 
I  cannot  stop  thinking  about  you.  I  think  of  you  even 
when  I  am  obliged  to  think  of  something  else  at  the 
same  time.  I  am  in  a  sort  of  tumult  every  moment 
I  am  away  from  you."  He  stopped  suddenly  and 
looked  up.  "I  am  speaking  as  if  I  had  been  with  you  a 
score  of  times.  I  haven't,  you  know.  I  have  only 
seen  you  once  since  the  dance.  But  it  is  as  if  we  had 
met  every  day — and  it's  true — I  am  in  a  sort  of  tumult. 
I  think  thousands  of  new  things  and  I  feel  as  if  I  must 
tell  you  of  them  all." 

"I — think  too,"  said  Robin.  Oh !  the  dark  dew  of 
her  imploring  eyes !  Oh !  the  beat  of  the  little  pulse 
he  could  actually  see  in  her  soft  bare  throat.  He  did 
not  even  ask  himself  what  the  eyes  implored  for.  They 
had  always  looked  like  that — as  if  they  were  asking  to 
be  allowed  to  be  happy  and  to  love  all  kind  things 
on  earth. 

"One  of  the  new  things  I  cannot  help  thinking  about 
; — it's  a  queer  thing  and  I  must  tell  you  about  it.  It's 
not  like  me  and  yet  it's  the  strongest  feeling  I  ever  had. 
Since  the  War  has  changed  everything  and  everybody, 
all  one's  feelings  have  grown  stronger.  I  never  was 


ROBIN  49 

furious  before — and  I've  been  furious.  IVe  felt  savage. 
I've  raged.  And  the  thing  I'm  thinking  of  is  like  a 
kind  of  obsession.  It's  this — "  he  caught  her  hands 
again  and  held  her  face  to  face  with  him.  "I — I  want 
to  have  you  to  myself,"  he  exclaimed. 

She  did  not  try  to  move.     She  only  gazed  at  him. 

"Nobody  else  has  me — at  all,"  she  answered.     "No 


one  wants  me." 


The  colour  ran  up  under  his  fine  skin. 

"What  I  mean  is  a  little  different.  Perhaps  you 
mayn't  understand  it.  I  want  this — our  being  to 
gether  in  this  way — our  understanding  and  talking — 
to  be  something  tha.t  belongs  to  us  and  to  no  one  else. 
It's  too  sudden  and  wonderful  for  any  one  but  our 
selves  to  understand.  Nobody  else  could  understand  it. 
Perhaps  we  don't  ourselves — quite!  But  I  know  what 
it  does  to  me.  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  other  people 
spoiling  the  beauty  of  it  by  talking  it  over  and  looking 
on."  He  actually  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about. 
"Oh,  I  ought  to  have  something  of  my  own — before 
it's  all  over — I  ought !  I  want  this  miracle  of  a  thing 
— for  my  own." 

He  stopped  and  stood  before  her. 

"My  mother  is  the  most  beloved  creature  in  the  world. 
I  have  always  told  her  everything.  She  has  always 
cared.  I  don't  know  why  I  have  not  told  her  about 
— this — but  I  haven't  and  I  don't  want  to — now.  That 
is  part  of  the  strange  thing.  I  do  not  want  to  tell  her 
— even  the  belovedest  woman  that  ever  lived.  I  want 
it  for  myself.  Will  you  let  me  have  it — will  you 
help  me  to  keep  it  ?" 

"Like  a  secret  ?"  said  Robin  in  her  soft  note. 

"No,  not  a  secret.  A  sort  of  sacred,  heavenly  un 
believable  thing  we  own  together." 


50  ROBIN 

"I  understand,"  was  Robin's  answer.  "It  does  not 
seem  strange  to  me.  I  have  thought  something  like 
that  too — almost  exactly  like." 

It  did  not  once  occur  to  them  to  express,  even  to  them 
selves,  in  any  common  mental  form  the  fact  that  they 
were  "in  love"  with  each  other.  The  tide  which  swept 
them  with  it  had  risen  ages  before  and  bore  them  on 
its  swelling  waves  as  though  they  were  leaves. 

"No  one  but  ourselves  will  know  that  we  meet," 
she  went  on  further.  "I  may  come  and  go  as  I  like  in 
these  hurried  busy  hours.  Even  Lady  Kathryn  is  as 
free  as  if  she  were  a  shop  girl.  It  is  as  you  said  be 
fore — there  is  no  time  to  be  curious  and  ask  questions. 
And  even  Dowie  has  been  obliged  to  go  to  her  cousin's 
widow  whose  husband  has  just  been  killed." 

Shaken,  thrilled,  exalted,  Donal  sat  down  again  and 
talked  to  her.  Together  they  made  their  plans  for  meet 
ing,  as  they  had  done  when  Andrews  had  slackened  her 
guard.  There  was  no  guard  to  keep  watch  on  them 
now.  And  the  tide  rose  hour  by  hour. 


CHAPTEE  VI 

AUNTS  and  cousins  and  more  or  less  able  relatives 
were  largely  drawn  on  in  these  days  of  stress 
and  need,  and  Dowie  was  an  efficient  person. 
The  cousin  whose  husband  had  been  killed  in  Belgium, 
leaving  a  young  widow  and  two  children  scarcely 
younger  and  more  helpless  than  herself,  had  no  rela 
tion  nearer  than  Dowie,  and  had  sent  forth  to  the  good 
woman  a  frantic  wail  for  help  in  her  desolation.  The 
two  children  were,  of  course,  on  the  point  of  being 
added  to  by  an  almost  immediately  impending  third, 
and  the  mother,  being  penniless  and  prostrated,  had 
remembered  the  comfortable  creature  with  her  solid 
bank  account  of  savings  and  her  good  sense  and  good 
manners  and  knowledge  of  a  world  larger  than  the  one 
into  which  she  had  been  born. 

"You're  settled  here,  my  lamb,"  Dowie  had  said 
to  Robin.  "It's  more  like  your  own  home  than  the 
other  place  was.  You're  well  and  safe  and  busy.  I 
must  go  to  poor  Henrietta  in  Manchester.  That's  my 
bit  of  work,  it  seems,  and  thank  God  I'm  able  to  do  it. 
She  was  a  fine  girl  in  a  fine  shop,  poor  Henrietta,  and 
she's  not  got  any  backbone  and  her  children  are  delicate 
— and  another  coming.  Well,  well!  I  do  thank  God 
that  you  don't  need  your  old  Dowie  as  you  did  at  first." 

Thus  she  went  away  and  in  her  own  pleasant  rooms 
in  the  big  house,  now  so  full  of  new  activities,  Robin 
was  as  unwatched  as  if  she  had  been  a  young  gull 

51 


52  ROBUST 

flying  in  and  out  of  its  nest  in  a  tall  cliff  rising  out  of 
the  beating  sea. 

Her  early  fever  of  anxiety  never  to  lose  sight  of  the 
fact  that  she  was  a  paid  servitor  had  been  gradually  as 
suaged  by  the  delicate  adroitness  of  the  Duchess  and  by 
the  aid  of  soothing  time.  While  no  duty  or  service 
was  forgotten  or  neglected,  she  realised  that  life  was 
passed  in  an  agreeable  freedom  which  was  a  happy 
thing.  Certain  hours  and  days  were  absolutely  her 
own  to  do  what  she  chose  with.  She  had  never  asked 
for  such  privileges,  but  the  Duchess  with  an  almost 
imperceptible  adjustment  had  arranged  that  they  should 
be  hers.  Sometimes  she  had  taken  Dowie  away  on  little 
holidays  to  the  sea  side,  often  she  spent  hours  in  pic 
ture  galleries  or  great  libraries  or  museums.  In  at 
tendance  on  the  Duchess  she  had  learned  to  know  all 
the  wonders  and  picturesqueness  of  her  London  and  its 
environments,  and  often  with  Dowie  as  her  companion 
she  wandered  about  curious  and  delightful  places  and, 
pleased  as  a  child,  looked  in  at  her  kind  at  work  or 
play.  ^ 

While  nations  shuddered  and  gasped,  cannon  belched 
forth  thunder  and  flaming,  battleships  crashed  together 
and  sudden  death  was  almost  as  unintermitting  as  the 
ticking  of  the  clock,  among  the  thousands  of  pairing 
souls  and  bodies  drawn  together  in  a  new  world  where 
for  the  time  being  all  sound  was  stilled  but  the  throb 
of  pulsing  hearts,  there  moved  with  the  spellbound 
throng  one  boy  and  girl  whose  dream  of  being  was  a 
thing  of  entrancement. 

Every  few  days  they  met  in  some  wonderfully  chosen 
and  always  quiet  spot.  Donal  knew  and  loved  the  half 
unknown  remote  corners  of  the  older  London  too. 
There  were  dim  gardens  behind  old  law  courts,  bits  of 


ROBIX  53 

mellow  old  enclosures  and  squares  seemingly  forgotten 
by  the  world,  there  were  the  immensities  of  the  great 
parks  where  embowered  paths  and  corners  were  at  cer 
tain  hours  as  unexplored  as  the  wilderness.  When  the 
Duchess  was  away  or  a  day  of  holiday  came,  there  were, 
more  than  once,  a  few  hours  on  the  river  where,  with 
boat  drawn  up  under  enshrouding  trees,  green  light  and 
lapping  water,  sunshine  and  silence,  rare  swans  sailing 
serenely  near  as  if  to  guard  them  made  the  background 
to  the  thrill  of  heavenly  young  wonder  and  joy. 

It  was  always  the  same.  Each  pair  of  eyes  found  in 
the  beauty  of  the  other  the  same  wonder  and,  through 
that  which  the  being  of  each  expressed,  each  was  shaken 
by  the  same  inward  thrill.  Sometimes  they  simply  sat 
and  gazed  at  each  other  like  happy  amazed  children 
scarcely  able  to  translate  their  own  delight.  Their 
very  aloofness  from  the  world — its  unawareness  of  their 
story's  existence  made  for  the  perfection  of  all  they  felt, 

"It  could  not  be  like  this  if  any  one  but  ourselves 
even  knew"  Donal  said.  "It  is  as  if  we  had  been 
changed  into  spirits  and  human  beings  could  not  see  us." 

There  was  seldom  much  leisure  in  their  meetings. 
Sometimes  they  had  only  a  few  minutes  in  which  to 
exchange  a  word  or  so,  to  cling  to  each  other's  hands. 
But  even  in  these  brief  meetings  the  words  that  were 
said  were  food  for  new  life  and  dreams  when  they  were 
apart.  And  the  tide  rose. 

But  it  did  not  overflow  until  one  early  morning  when 
they  met  in  a  gorse-filled  hollow  at  Hampstead,  each 
looking  at  the  other  pale  and  stricken.  In  Robin's  wide 
eyes  was  helpless  horror  and  Donal  knew  too  well  what 
she  was  going  to  say. 

"Lord  Halwyn  is  killed!"  she  gasped  out.  "And 
four  of  his  friends !  We  all  danced  the  tango  together 


54  ROBUST 

— and  that  new  kicking  step!"  She  began  to  sob 
piteously.  Somehow  it  was  the  sudden  memory  of  the 
almost  comic  kicking  step  which  overwhelmed  her  with 
the  most  gruesome  sense  of  awfulness — as  if  the  world 
had  come  to  an  end. 

"It  was  new — and  they  laughed  so!  They  are 
killed !"  she  cried  beating  her  little  hands.  He  had  just 
heard  the  same  news.  Five  of  them!  And  he  had 
heard  details  she  had  been  spared. 

He  was  as  pale  as  she.  He  stood  before  her  quiver 
ing,  hot  and  cold.  Until  this  hour  they  had  been  living 
only  through  the  early  growing  wonder  of  their  dream ; 
they  had  only  talked  together  and  exquisitely  yearned 
and  thrilled  at  the  marvel  of  every  simple  word  or  hand- 
touch  or  glance,  and  every  meeting  had  been  a  new 
delight.  But  now  suddenly  the  being  of  each  shook 
and  called  to  the  other  in  wild  need  of  the  nearer  near 
ness  which  is  comfort  and  help.  It  was  early — early 
morning — the  heath  spread  about  them  wide  and  empty, 
and  at  that  very  instant  a  skylark  sprang  from  its  hidden 
nest  in  the  earth  and  circled  upward  to  heaven  singing 
as  to  God. 

"They  will  take  you!"  she  wailed.  "You — you!" 
And  did  not  know  that  she  held  out  her  arms. 

But  he  knew — with  a  great  shock  of  incredible  rap 
ture  and  tempestuous  answering.  He  caught  her  soft 
ness  to  his  thudding  young  chest  and  kissed  her  sobbing 
mouth,  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  little  pulsing  throat. 

"Oh,  little  love,"  he  himself  almost  sobbed  the  words. 
"Oh,  little  lovely  love!" 

She  melted  into  his  arms  like  a  weeping  child.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  always  rested  there  and  it  was  mere 
Nature  that  he  should  hold  and  comfort  her.  But  he 


KOBLN"  55 

had  never  heard  or  dreamed  of  the  possibility  of  such 
anguish  as  was  in  her  sobbing. 

"They  will  take  you!"  she  said.  "And — you  danced 
too.  And  I  must  not  hold  you  back !  And  I  must  stay 
here  and  wait  and  wait — and  wait — until  some  day — ! 
Donal!  Donal!" 

He  sat  down  with  her  amongst  the  gorse  and  held  her 
on  his  knee  as  if  she  had  been  six  years  old.  She  did 
not  attempt  to  move  but  crouched  there  and  clung  to  him 
with  both  hands.  She  remembered  only  one  thing — 
that  he  must  go !  And  there  were  cannons — and  shells 
singing  and  screaming !  And  boys  like  George  in  awful 
heaps.  No  laughing  face  as  it  had  once  looked — all 
marred  and  strange  and  piteously  lonely  as  they  lay. 

It  took  him  a  long  time  to  calm  her  terror  and  woe. 
When  at  last  he  had  so  far  quieted  her  that  her  sobs 
came  only  at  intervals  she  seemed  to  awaken  to  sudden 
childish  awkwardness.  She  sat  up  and  shyly  moved. 
"I  didn't  mean — I  didn't  know — !"  she  quavered.  "I 
am — I  am  sitting  on  your  knee  like  a  baby !"  But  he 
could  not  let  her  go. 

"It  is  because  I  love  you  so,"  he  answered  in  his  com 
pelling  boy  voice,  holding  her  gently.  "Don't  move — 
don't  move!  There  is  no  time  to  think  and  wait — or 
care  for  anything — if  we  love  each  other.  We  do  love 
each  other,  don't  we  ?"  He  put  his  cheek  against  hers 
and  pressed  it  there.  "Oh,  say  we  do,"  he  begged. 
"There  is  no  time.  And  listen  to  the  skylark  singing!" 

The  butterfly-wing  flutter  of  her  lashes  against  his 
cheek  as  she  pressed  the  softness  of  her  own  closer,  and 
the  quick  exquisite  indrawing  of  her  tender,  half-sob 
bing  childish  breath  were  unspeakably  lovely  answering 
things — though  he  heard  her  whisper. 


56  ROBIN 

"Yes,  Donal!  Donal!"  And  again,  "Donal* 
Donal !" 

And  he  held  her  closer  and  kissed  her  very  gently 
again.  And  they  eat  and  whispered  that  they  loved 
each  other  and  had  always  loved  each  other  and  would 
love  each  other  forever  and  forever  and  forever.  Poor 
enrapt  children!  It  has  been  said  before,  but  they 
said  it  again  and  yet  again.  And  the  circling  skylark 
seemed  to  sing  at  the  very  gates  of  God's  heaven. 

So  the  tide  rose  to  its  high  flowing. 


CHAPTEK  VII 

THE  days  of  gold  which  linked  themselves  one  to 
another  with  strange  dawns  of  pearl  and  ex 
quisite  awakenings,  each  a  miracle,  the  gemmed 
night  whose  blue  darkness  seemed  studded  with  myriads 
of  new  stars,  the  noons  whose  heats  or  rains  were  all 
warm  scents  of  flowers  and  fragrant  mists,  wrought 
themselves  into  a  chain  of  earthly  beauty.  The  hour  in 
which  the  links  must  break  and  the  chain  end  was 
always  a  faint  spectre  veiled  by  kindly  mists  which 
seemed  to  rise  hour  by  hour  to  soften  and  hide  it. 

But  often  in  those  days  did  it  occur  that  the  hurrying 
and  changing  visitors  to  the  house  in  Eaton  Square, 
glancing  at  Robin  as  she  sat  writing  letters,  or  as  she 
passed  them  in  some  hall  or  room,  found  themselves 
momentarily  arrested  in  an  ahnost  startled  fashion  by 
the  mere  radiance  of  her. 

"She  is  lovelier  every  time  one  turns  one's  head 
towards  her,"  the  Starling  said — the  Starling  having 
become  a  vigorous  worker  and  the  Duchess  giving  wel 
come  to  any  man,  woman  or  child  who  could  be  counted 
on  for  honest  help.  "It  almost  frightens  me  to  see  her 
eyes  when  she  looks  up  suddenly.  It  is  like  finding 
one's  self  too  close  to  a  star.  A  star  in  the  sky  is  all 
very  well — but  a  star  only  three  feet  away  from  one 
is  a  kind  of  shock.  What  has  happened  to  the 
child?" 

She  said  it  to  Gerald  Vesey  who  between  hours  of 
military  training  was  helping  Harro\Mby  to  arrange  a 

57 


58  ROBIN 

matinee  for  the  benefit  of  the  Red  Cross.  Harrowby 
Lad  been  rejected  by  the  military  authorities  on  ac 
count  of  defective  sight  and  weak  chest  but  had  with 
a  promptness  unexpected  by  his  friends  merged  him 
self  into  unprominent,  useful  hard  work  which  fre 
quently  consisted  of  doing  disagreeable  small  jobs  men 
of  his  type  generally  shied  away  from. 

"Something  has  happened  to  her,"  answered  Vesey. 
"She  has  the  flight  of  a  skylark  let  out  of  a  cage.  Her 
moving  is  flight — not  ordinary  walking.  I  hope  her 
work  has  kept  her  away  from — well,  from  young  gods 
and  things." 

"The  streets  are  full  of  them,"  said  Harrowby, 
"marching  to  defy  death  and  springing  to  meet  glory — 
marching  not  walking.  Young  Mars  and  Ajax  and 
young  Paris  with  Helen  in  his  eyes.  She  might  be 
some  youngster's  Helen!  Why  do  you  hope  her  work 
has  kept  her  away?" 

Vesey  shook  his  Greek  head  with  a  tragic  bitterness. 

"Oh!  I  don't  know,"  he  groaned.  "There's  too 
much  disaster  piled  high  and  staring  in  every  one  of 
their  flushing  rash  young  faces.  On  they  go  with  their 
heads  in  the  air  and  their  hearts  thumping,  and  hoping 
and  refusing  to  believe  in  the  devil  and  hell  let  loose — 
and  the  whole  thing  stares  and  gibbers  at  them." 

But  each  day  her  eyes  looked  larger  and  more  rap 
turously  full  of  heavenly  glowing,  and  her  light  move 
ments  were  more  like  bird  flight,  and  her  swiftness  and 
sweet  readiness  to  serve  delighted  and  touched  people 
more,  and  they  spoke  oftener  to  and  of  her,  and  felt  ac 
tually  a  thought  uplifted  from  the  darkness  because  she 
was  like  pure  light's  self. 

Lord  Coombe  met  her  in  the  street  one  evening  at 
twilight  and  he  stopped  to  speak  to  her. 


KOBIN  59 

"I  have  just  come  from  Darte  Norham,"  he  said 
to  her.  "The  Duchess  asked  me  to  see  you  personally 
and  make  sure  that  you  do  not  miss  Dowie  too  much — 
that  you  are  not  lonely." 

"I  am  very  busy  and  am  very  well  taken  caro  of," 
was  her  answer.  "The  servants  are  very  attentive  and 
kind.  I  am  not  lonely  at  all,  thank  you.  The  Duch 
ess  is  very  good  to  me." 

Donal  evidently  knew  nothing  of  her  reasons  for 
disliking  Lord  Coombe.  She  could  not  have  told  him 
of  them.  He  did  not  dislike  his  relative  himself  and 
in  fact  rather  liked  him  in  spite  of  the  frigidity  he 
sometimes  felt.  He,  at  any  rate,  admired  his  cold 
brilliance  of  mind.  Robin  could  not  therefore  let  her 
self  detest  the  man  and  regard  him  as  an  enemy.  But 
she  did  not  like  the  still  searching  of  the  grey  eyes 
which  rested  on  her  so  steadily. 

"The  Duchess  wished  me  to  make  sure  that  you  did 
not  work  too  enthusiastically.  She  desires  you  to  take 
plenty  of  exercise  and  if  you  are  tired  to  go  into  the 
country  for  a  day  or  two  of  fresh  air  and  rest.  She 
recommends  old  Mrs.  Bennett's  cottage  at  Mersham 
Wood.  The  place  is  quite  rustic  though  it  is  near 
enough  to  London  to  be  convenient.  You  might  come 
and  go." 

"She  is  too  kind— too  kind,"  said  Kobin.  "Oh! 
how  kind  to  think  of  me  like  that.  I  will  write  and 
thank  her." 

The  sweet  gratitude  in  her  eyes  and  voice  were  touch 
ing.  She  could  not  speak  steadily. 

"I  may  tell  her  then  that  you  are  well  taken  care 
of  and  that  you  are  happy,"  the  grey  eyes  were  a  shade 
less  cold  but  still  searching  and  steady.  "You  look — 
happy." 


60  ROBIN 

"I  never  was  so  happy  before.  Please — please  tell 
her  that  when  you  thank  her  for  me,"  was  Robin's  quite 
yearning  little  appeal.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  "Thank  you,  Lord 
Coombe,  for  so  kindly  delivering  her  beautiful  mes 
sage." 

His  perfect  manner  did  not  record  any  recognition 
on  his  part  of  the  fact  that  she  had  done  an  unex 
pected  thing.  But  as  he  went  on  his  way  he  was 
thinking  of  it. 

"She  is  very  happy  for  some  reason,"  he  thought. 
"Perhaps  the  rush  and  excitement  of  her  new  work 
exalts  her.  She  has  the  ecstasied  air  of  a  lovely  child 
on  her  birthday — with  all  her  world  filled  with  petting 
and  birthday  gifts." 

The  Duchess  evidently  extended  her  care  to  the  extent 
of  sending  special  messages  to  Mrs.  James,  the  house 
keeper,  who  began  to  exercise  a  motherly  surveillance 
over  Robin's  health  and  diet  and  warmly  to  advocate 
long  walks  and  country  visits  to  the  cottage  at  Mer- 
sham  Wood. 

"Her  grace  will  be  really  pleased  if  you  take  a  day  or 
two  while  she's  away.  She's  always  been  just  that  in 
terested  in  those  about  her,  Miss,"  Mrs.  James  ar 
gued.  "She  wouldn't  like  to  come  back  and  find  you 
looking  tired  or  pale.  Not  that  there's  much  danger  of 
that,"  quite  beamingly.  "For  all  your  hard  work,  I 
must  say  you  look — well,  you  look  as  I've  never  seen 
you.  And  you  always  had  a  colour  like  a  new-picked 


rose." 


The  colour  like  a  new-picked  rose  ran  up  to  the  rings 
of  hair  on  the  girl's  forehead  as  if  she  were  made 
a  little  shy. 

"It  is  because   her  grace  has  been  so  good — and 


ROBIN  61 

because  every  one  is  so  kind  to  me,"  she  said.  "Kind 
ness  makes  me  happy." 

She  was  so  happy  that  she  was  never  tired  and  was 
regarded  as  a  young  wonder  in  the  matter  of  work  and 
readiness  and  exactitude.  Her  accounts,  her  corre 
spondence,  her  information  were  always  in  order.  When 
she  took  the  prescribed  walks  and  in  some  aloof  path 
or  corner  met  the  strong,  slim  khaki-clad  figure,  they 
walked  or  stood  or  sat  closely  side  by  side  and  talked 
of  many  things — though  most  of  all  they  dwelt  on  one. 
She  could  ask  Donal  questions  and  he  could  throw  light 
on  such  things  as  young  soldiers  knew  better  than  most 
people.  She  came  into  close  touch — a  shuddering  touch 
sometimes  it  was — with  needs  and  facts  concerning 
marchings  and  trenches  and  attacks  and  was  therefore 
able  to  visualise  and  to  speak  definitely  of  necessities  not 
always  understood. 

"How  did  you  find  that  out  ?"  little  black-clad  Lady 
Kathryn  asked  her  one  day.  "I  wish  I  had  known  it 
before  George  went  away." 

"A  soldier  told  me,"  was  her  answer.  "Soldiers 
know  things  we  don't." 

"The  world  is  made  of  soldiers  now,"  said  Kathryn. 
"And  one  is  always  talking  to  them.  I  shall  begin  to 
ask  them  questions  about  small  things  like  that." 

It  was  the  same  morning  that  as  they  stood  alone 
together  for  a  few  minutes  Kathryn  suddenly  put  her 
hand  upon  Robin's  shoulder. 

"You  never — never  feel  the  least  angry — when  you 
remember  about  George — the  night  of  the  dance,"  she 
pleaded  shakily.  "Do  you,  Robin?  You  couldn't 
now!  Could  you?" 

Tears  rushed  into  Robin's  eyes. 

"Never — never!"    she   said.     "I    always   remember 


62  ROBIN 

him  —  oh,  quite  differently!  He  -  "  she  hesitated  a 
second  and  began  again.  "He  did  something  —  so  won 
derfully  kind  —  before  he  went  away  —  something  for 
me.  That  is  what  I  remember.  And  his  nice  voice 
—  and  his  good  eyes." 

"Oh!  he  was  good!  He  was!"  exclaimed  Kathryn 
in  a  sort  of  despairing  impatience.  "So  many  of 
them  are!  It's  awful!"  And  she  sat  down  in  the 
nearest  chair  and  cried  hopelessly  into  her  crushed  hand 
kerchief  while  Robin  tried  to  soothe  —  not  to  comfort 
her.  There  was  no  comfort  to  offer.  And  behind  the 
rose  tinted  mists  her  own  spectre  merely  pretended 
to  veil  itself. 


When  she  lay  in  bed  at  night  in  her  quiet  room  she 
often  lay  awake  long  and  long  for  pure  bliss.  The 
world  in  which  people  were  near  —  near  —  to  one  another 
and  loved  each  other,  the  world  Donal  had  always  be 
longed  to  even  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  she  now  knew 
and  lived  in.  There  was  no  loneliness  in  it.  If  there 
was  pain  or  trouble  some  one  who  loved  you  was  part 
of  it  and  you,  and  so  you  could  bear  it.  All  the  radiant 
mornings  and  heavenly  nights,  all  the  summer  scents 
of  flowers  or  hay  or  hedges  in  bloom,  or  new  rain  on  the 
earth,  were  things  felt  just  as  that  other  one  felt  them 
and  drew  in  their  delights  —  exactly  in  the  same  way. 
Once  in  the  night  stillness  of  a  sweet  dark  country 
lane  she  had  stood  in  the  circle  of  Donal's  arm,  her 
joyous,  warm  young  breast  against  his  and  they  had 
heard  together  the  singing  of  a  nightingale  in  a  thicket. 

"Let  us  stand  still,"  he  had  whispered  close  to  her 
ear.  "Let  us  not  speak  a  word  —  not  a  word.  Oh! 


EOBIIST  63 

little  lovely  love !  Let  us  only  listen — and  be  happy !" 
Almost  every  day  there  were  marvels  like  this.  And 
when  they  were  apart  she  could  not  forget  them  but 
walked  like  a  spirit  strayed  on  to  earth  and  unknowing 
of  its  radiance.  This  was  why  people  glanced  at  her 
curiously  and  were  sometimes  vaguely  troubled. 


CHAPTEB  VIII 

THE  other  woman  who  loved  and  was  loved 
by  him  moved  about  her  world  in  these  days 
with  a  face  less  radiant  than  the  one  people 
turned  to  look  at  in  the  street  or  in  its  passing  through 
the  house  in  Eaton  Square.  Helen  Muir's  eyes  were 
grave  and  pondered.  She  had  always  known  of  the 
sometime  coming  of  the  hour  in  which  would  rise  the 
shadow — to  him  a  cloud  of  rapture — which  must  ob 
scure  the  old  clearness  of  vision  which  had  existed  be 
tween  them.  She  had  been  too  well  balanced  of  brain 
to  allow  herself  to  make  a  tragedy  of  it  or  softly  to 
sentimentalise  of  loss.  It  was  mere  living  nature 
that  it  should  be  so.  He  would  be  as  always,  a  be 
loved  wonder  of  dearness  and  beauty  when  his  hour 
came  and  she  would  look  on  and  watch  and  be  so 
cleverly  silent  and  delicately  detached  from  his  shy, 
aloof  young  moods,  his  funny,  dear  involuntary  secrets 
and  reserves.  But  at  any  moment — day  or  night — at 
any  elate  emotional  moment  ready! 

She  had  the  rare  accomplishment  of  a  perfect  knowl 
edge  of  how  to  waii,  and  to  wait — if  necessary — long. 
When  the  first  golden  down  had  shown  itself  on  his 
cheek  and  lip  she  had  not  noticed  it  too  much  and 
when  his  golden  soprano  voice  began  to  change  to  a 
deeper  note  and  annoyed  him  with  its  uncertainties 
she  had  spared  him  awkwardness  by  making  him  feel 
the  transition  a  casual  natural  thing,  instead  of  a  per 
sonal  and  characteristic  weakness.  She  had  loved 

64 


ROBIN  65 

every  stage  of  innocence  and  ignorance  and  adorable 
silliness  he  had  passed  through  and  he  had  grown  closer 
to  her  through  the  medium  of  each,  because  nothing  in 
life  was  so  clear  as  her  lovely  wiseness  and  fine  per 
ceptive  entirety  of  sympathy  and  poise. 

"I  never  have  to  explain  really,"  he  said  more  than 
once.  uYou  would  understand  even  if  I  were  an  idiot 
or  a  criminal.  And  you'd  understand  if  I  were  an 
archangel." 

With  a  deep  awareness  she  knew  that,  when  she  first 
realised  that  the  shadow  was  rising,  it  would  be  dif 
ferent.  She  would  have  to  watch  it  with  an  aloof 
ness  more  delicate  and  yet  more  warmly  sensitive  than 
any  other.  In  the  days  when  she  first  thought  of  him 
as  like  one  who  is  listening  to  a  far-off  sound,  it  seemed 
possible  that  in  the  clamour  of  louder  echoes  this  one 
might  lose  itself  and  at  last  die  away  even  from  memory. 
It  was  youth's  way  to  listen  and  youth's  way  to  find  it 
easy  to  forget.  He  heard  many  reverberations  in  these 
days  and  had  much  reason  for  thought  and  action.  He 
thought  a  great  deal,  he  worked  energetically,  he  came 
and  went,  he  read  and  studied,  he  obeyed  orders  and 
always  stood  ready  for  new  ones.  Her  pride  in  his 
vigorous  initiative  and  practical  determination  was 
a  glowing  flame  in  her  heart.  He  meant  to  be  no  toy 
soldier. 

As  she  became  as  practical  a  worker  as  he  was,  they 
did  much  together  and  made  plans  without  ceasing. 
When  he  was  away  she  was  always  doing  things  in 
which  he  was  interested  and  when  he  returned  he  al 
ways  brought  to  her  suggestions  for  new  service  or  the 
development  of  the  old.  But  as  the  days  passed  and 
became  weeks  she  knew  that  the  far-off  sound  was  still 
being  listened  to.  She  could  not  have  told  how — but 


66  ROBIN 

she  knew.  And  she  saw  the  beloved  dearness  and  beauty 
growing  in  him.  He  came  into  the  house  each  day  in 
his  khaki  as  if  khaki  were  a  shining  thing.  When 
he  laughed,  or  sat  and  smiled,  or  dreamed — forgetting 
she  was  there — her  very  heart  quaked  with  delight  in 
him.  Another  woman  than  Robin  counted  over  his 
charms  and  made  a  tender  list  of  them,  wondering  at 
each  one.  As  a  young  male  pheasant  in  mating  time 
dons  finer  gloss  and  brilliancy  of  plumage,  perhaps 
he  too  bloomed  and  all  unconscious  developed  added 
colour  and  inches  and  gallant  swing  of  tread.  As  people 
turned  half  astart  to  look  at  Robin  bending  over  her 
desk  or  walking  about  among  them  in  her  modest  dress, 
so  also  did  they  turn  to  look  after  him  as  he  went  in 
springing  march  along  the  streets. 

"Some  day  he  will  begin  to  tell  me,"  Helen  used  to 
say  to  herself  at  night.  "He  may  only  begin — but 
perhaps  it  will  be  to-morrow." 

It  was  not,  however,  to-morrow — or  to-morrow.  And 
in  the  midst  of  his  work  he  still  listened.  As  he  sat 
and  dreamed  he  listened  and  sometimes  he  was  very 
deep  in  thought — sitting  with  his  arms  folded  and  his 
eyes  troubled  and  questioning  of  the  space  into  which 
he  looked.  The  time  was  really  not  very  long,  but  it 
began  to  seem  so  to  her. 

"But  some  day — soon — he  will  tell  me,"  she  thought. 


One  afternoon  Donal  walked  into  a  room-  where  a 
number  of  well-dressed  women  were  talking,  drinking 
tea  and  knitting  or  crocheting.  It  had  begun  already 
to  be  the  fashion  for  almost  every  woman  to  carry  on 
her  arm  a  work  bag  and  produce  from  its  depths  at 


KOBLKT  67 

any  moment  without  warning  something  she  was  mak 
ing.  In  the  early  days  the  bag  was  usually  highly 
decorated  and  the  article  being  made  was  a  luxury. 
Only  a  few  serious  and  pessimistic  workers  had  begun 
to  produce  plain  usefulness  and  in  this  particular  May- 
fair  drawing-room  "the  War"  as  yet  seemed  to  present 
itself  rather  as  a  dramatic  and  picturesque  social  asset. 
A  number  of  good-looking  young  officers  moved  about 
or  sat  in  corners  being  petted  and  flirted  with,  while 
many  of  the  women  had  the  slightly  elated  excitement 
of  air  produced  in  certain  of  their  sex  by  the  marked 
preponderance  of  the  presence  of  the  masculine  ele 
ment.  It  was  a  thing  which  made  for  high  spirits  and 
laughs  and  amiable  semi-caressing  chaff.  The  women 
who  in  times  of  peace  had  been  in  the  habit  of  re 
ferring  to  their  "boys' '  were  in  these  days  in  great 
form. 

Donal  had  been  taken  to  the  place  by  an  amusement- 
loving  acquaintance  who  professed  that  a  special  in 
vitation  made  it  impossible  to  pass  by  without  dropping 
in.  The  house  was  Mrs.  Erwyn's  and  had  already 
attracted  attention  through  the  recent  debuts  of  Eileen 
and  Winifred  who  had  grown  up  very  pretty  and 
still  retained  their  large,  curious  eyes  and  their  tend 
ency  to  giggle  musically. 

In  very  short  and  slimly  alluring  frocks  they  were 
assisting  their  mother  in  preparing  young  warriors  for 
the  seat  of  war  by  giving  them  chocolate  in  egg-shell 
cups  and  little  cakes.  Winifred  carried  a  coral  satin 
work-bag  embroidered  with  carnations  and  was  crochet 
ing  a  silk  necktie  peculiarly  suited  to  fierce  onslaught  on 
the  enemy. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  clutching  in  secret  at  Eileen's 
sleeve  when  Donal  entered  the  room.  "  There  he  is ! 


68  KOBDsT 

Jack  said  lie  would  mate  him  come!  Just  look  at 
him!" 

"Gracious!"  ejaculated  Eileen.  "I  daren't  look! 
It's  not  safe!" 

They  looked,  however,  to  their  irresistible  utmost 
when  he  came  to  make  his  nice,  well-behaved  bow  to  his 
hostess. 

"I  love  his  bow,"  Eileen  whispered.  "It  is  such  a 
beautiful  tall  bow.  And  he  looks  as  good  as  he  is 
beautiful." 

aOh !  not  good  exactly !"  protested  Winifred.  "Just 
sweet — as  if  he  thinks  you  are  quite  as  nice  as  him 
self." 

He  was  taken  from  one  group  to  another  and  made 
much  of  and  flattered  quite  openly.  He  was  given 
claret  cup  and  feathery  sandwiches  and  asked  questions 
and  given  information.  He  was  chattered  to  and  whis 
pered  about  and  spent  half  an  hour  in  a  polite  vortex 
of  presentation.  He  was  not  as  highly  entertained  as 
his  companion  was  because  he  was  thinking  of  some 
thing  else — of  a  place  which  seemed  incredibly  far 
away  from  London  drawing-rooms — even  if  he  could 
have  convinced  himself  that  it  existed  on  the  same 
earth.  The  trouble  was  that  he  was  always  thinking 
of  this  place — and  of  others.  He  could  not  forget  them 
even  in  the  midst  of  any  clamour  of  life.  Sometimes 
he  was  afraid  he  forgot  where  he  was  and  might  look 
as  if  he  were  not  listening  to  people.  There  were  mo 
ments  when  he  caught  his  breath  because  of  a  sudden 
high  throb  of  his  heart.  How  could  he  shut  out  of  his 
mind  that  which  seemed  to  be  his  mind — his  body — the 
soul  of  him ! 

It  was  at  a  moment  when-  he  was  thinking  of  this 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  disturbance  that  a  silver  toned 


KOBIN  69 

voice  evidently  speaking  to  him  attracted  his  attention. 

The  voice  was  of  silver  and  the  light  laugh  was 
silvery. 

"You  look  as  if  you  were  not  thinking  of  any  of  us," 
the  owner  said. 

He  turned  about  to  find  himself  looking  at  one  of  the 
prettiest  of  the  filmily  dressed  creatures  in  the  room. 
Her  frock  was  one  of  the  briefest  and  her  tiny  heels  the 
highest  and  most  slender.  The  incredible  foot  and 
ankle  wore  a  flesh  silk  stocking  so  fine  that  it  looked 
as  though  they  were  bare — which  was  the  achievement 
most  to  be  aspired  to.  Every  atom  of  her  was  lovely 
and  her  small  deep-curved  mouth  and  pure  large  eyes 
were  like  an  angel's. 

"I  believe  you  remember  me !"  she  said  after  a  second 
or  so  in  which  they  held  each  other's  gaze  and  Donal 
knew  he  began  to  flush  slowly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "I  do — now  I  have  looked 
again.  You  were — The  Lady  Downstairs." 

She  flung  out  the  silver  laugh  again. 

"After  all  these  years!  After  one  has  grown  old 
and  withered  and  wrinkled — and  has  a  grown-up 
daughter." 

He  answered  with  a  dazzling  young-man-of-the- 
world  bow  and  air.  He  had  not  been  to  Eton  and 
Oxford  and  touched  the  outskirts  of  two  or  three  Lon 
don  seasons,  as  a  boy  beauty  and  a  modest  Apollo  Bel- 
videre  in  his  teens,  without  learning  a  number  of 
pleasant  little  ways. 

"You  are  exactly  as  you  were  the  morning  you  came 
into  the  Gardens  dressed  in  crocuses  and  daffodils.  I 
thought  they  were  daffodils  and  crocuses.  I  said  so 
to  my  mother  afterwards." 

He  did  not  like  her  but  he  knew  how  her  world  talked 


70  ROBIN 

to  her.  And  he  wanted  to  hear  her  speak — The  Lady 
Downstairs — who  had  not  "liked"  the  soft-eyed,  long 
ing,  warm  little  lonely  thing. 

"All  people  say  of  you  is  entirely  true,"  she  said. 
"I  did  not  helieve  it  at  first  but  I  do  now."  She  patted 
the  seat  of  the  small  sofa  she  had  dropped  on.  "Come 
and  sit  here  and  talk  to  me  a  few  minutes.  Girls  will 
come  and  snatch  you  away  presently  but  you  can  spare 
about  three  minutes." 

He  did  as  he  was  told  and  wondered  as  he  came  nearer 
to  the  shell  fineness  of  her  cheek  and  her  seraphic 
smile. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  something  about  my  only 
child,"  she  said. 

He  hoped  very  much  that  he  did  not  flush  in  his 
sometimes-troublesome  blond  fashion  then.  He  hoped 
so. 

"I  shall  be  most  happy  to  tell  you  anything  I  have 
the  honour  of  knowing,"  he  answered.  "Only  ask." 

"You  would  be  capable  of  putting  on  a  touch  of  Lord 
Coombe's  little  stiff  air — if  you  were  not  so  young  and 
polite,"  she  said.  "It  was  Lord  Coombe  who  told  me 
about  the  old  Duchess'  dance — and  that  you  tangoed 
or  swooped — or  kicked  with  my  Robin.  He  said  both 
of  you  did  it  beautifully." 

"Miss  Gareth-Lawless  did — at  least." 

He  was  looking  down  and  so  did  not  chance  to  see 
the  look  of  a  little  cat  which  showed  itself  in  her  quick 
side  glance. 

"She  is  not  my  Robin  now.  She  belongs  to  the 
Dowager  Duchess  of  Darte — for  a  consideration.  She 
is  one  of  the  new  little  females  who  are  obstinately  de 
termined  to  earn  an  honest  living.  I  haven't  seen  her 
for  months — perhaps  years.  Is  she  pretty?"  The 


ROBINf  71 

last  three  words  came  out  like  the  little  cat's  pounce  on 
a   mouse.     Donal   even   felt  momentarily   startled. 

But  he  remained  capable  of  raising  clear  eyes  to  hers 
and  saying,  "She  was  prettier  than  any  one  else  at  the 
Duchess'  house  that  night.  Far  prettier." 

"Have  you  never  seen  her  since  ?" 

This  was  a  pounce  again  and  he  was  quite  aware  of 
it. 

"Yes." 

Feather  gurgled. 

"That  was  really  worthy  of  Lord  Coombe,"  she  said. 
"I  wasn't  being  pushing,  really,  Mr.  Muir.  If  any  one 
asks  you  your  intentions  it  will  be  the  Dowager — not 
little  Miss  Gareth-Lawless'  mother.  I  never  pre 
tended  to  chaperon  Robin.  She  might  run  about  all 
over  London  without  my  asking  any  questions.  I  am 
afraid  I  am  not  much  of  a  mother.  I  am  not  in  the 
least  like  yours." 

"Like  mine  ?"  He  wondered  why  his  mother  should 
be  so  suddenly  dragged  in. 

She  laughed  with  a  bright  air  of  being  much  enter 
tained. 

"Do  you  remember  how  Mrs.  Muir  whisked  you  away 
from  London  the  day  after  she  found  out  that  you  were 
playing  with  my  vagabond  of  a  Robin — unknowing  of 
your  danger  ?  There  was  a  mother  for  you !  It  nearly 
killed  my  little  pariah." 

She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  have  not  really  had  my  three  minutes,  but  'I  must 
not  detain  you  any  longer/  as  Royal  Highnesses  say. 
I  must  go." 

"Why?"  he  ejaculated  with  involuntary  impatience. 

"Because  Eileen  Erwyn  is  standing  with  her  back 
markedly  turned  towards  us,  pretending  to  talk.  I 


72  KOBLN 

know  the  expression  of  her  little  ears  and  she  has  just 
laid  them  back  close  to  her  head,  which  means  business. 
Why  do  you  all  at  once  look  quite  like  Lord  Coombe  ?" 
Perhaps  he  did  look  a  trifle  like  his  relative.  He  had 
risen  to  his  feet. 

"I  was  not  aware  that  I  was  whisked  away  from 
London,"  he  said. 

"I  was,"  with  pretty  impudence.  "You  were  bun 
dled  back  to  Scotland  almost  before  daylight.  Lord 
Coombe  knew  about  it.  We  laughed  immensely  to 
gether.  It  was  a  great  joke  because  Kobin  fainted  and 
fell  into  the  mud,  or  something  of  the  sort,  when  you 
didn't  turn  up  the  next  morning.  She  almost  pined 
away  and  died  of  grief,  tiresome  little  thing!  I  told 
you  Eileen  was  preparing  to  assault.  Here  she  is! 
Hordes  of  girls  will  now  advance  upon  you.  So  glad 
to  have  had  you  even  for  a  few  treasured  seconds.  Good 
afternoon." 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  not  a  long  time  before  he  had  left  the  house, 
but  it  seemed  long  and  as  if  he  had  thought  a  great 
many  rather  incoherent  things  before  he  had 
reached  the  street  and  presently  parted  from  his  gay  ac 
quaintance  and  was  on  his  way  to  his  mother's  house 
where  she  was  spending  a  week,  having  come  down 
from  Scotland  as  she  did  often. 

He  walked  all  the  way  home  because  he  wanted  move 
ment.  He  also  wanted  time  to  think  things  over  be 
cause  the  intensity  of  his  own  mood  troubled  him.  It 
was  new  for  him  to  think  much  about  himself,  but 
lately  he  had  found  himself  sometimes  wondering  at,  as 
well  as  shaken  by,  emotional  mental  phases  through 
which  he  passed.  A  certain  moving  fancy  always  held 
its  own  in  his  thoughts — as  a  sort  of  background  to 
them.  It  was  in  h's  feeling  that  he  was  in  those  weeks 
a  Donal  Muir  who  was  unknown  and  unseen  by  the 
passing  world.  No  one  but  himself — and  Robin — 
could  know  the  meaning,  the  feeling,  the  nature  of  this 
Donal.  It  was  as  if  he  lived  in  a  new  Dimension  of 
whose  existence  other  people  did  not  know.  He  could 
not  have  explained  because  it  would  not  have  been  under 
stood.  He  could  vaguely  imagine  that  effort  at  explana 
tion  would  end — even  begin — by  being  so  clumsy  that 
it  would  be  met  by  puzzled  or  unbelieving  smiles. 

To  walk  about — to  sleep — to  awaken  surrounded  by 
rarefied  light  and  air  in  which  no  object  or  act  or  even 
word  or  thought  wore  its  past  familiar  meaning,  or  to 


74:  KOBIN 

go  about  the  common  streets,  feeling  as  though  some 
how  one  were  apart  and  unseen,  was  a  singular  thing. 
Having  had  a  youth  filled  with  quite  virile  pleasures  and 
delightful  emotions — and  to  be  lifted  above  them  into 
other  air  and  among  other  visions — was,  he  told  himself, 
like  walking  in  a  dream.  To  be  filled  continually  with 
one  thought,  to  rebel  against  any  obstacle  in  the  path 
to  one  desire,  and  from  morning  until  night  to  be  im 
pelled  by  one  eagerness  for  some  moment  or  hour  for 
which  there  was  reason  enough  for  its  having  place  in 
the  movings  of  the  universe,  if  it  brought  him  face  to 
face  with  what  he  must  stand  near  to — see — hear — 
perhaps  touch. 

It  wasr  because  of  the  world's  madness,  because  of  the 
human  fear  and  weeping  everywhere,  because  of  the 
new  abysses  which  seemed  to  yawn  every  day  on  every 
side,  that  both  soul  and  senses  were  so  abnormally  over 
strung.  He  was  overwhelmed  by  exquisite  compassions 
in  his  thoughts  of  Robin,  he  was  afraid  for  her  young- 
ness,  her  sweetness,  the  innocent  defencelessness  which 
was  like  a  child's.  He  was  afraid  of  his  own  young 
rashness  and  the  entrancement  of  the  dream.  The 
great  lunging  chariot  of  War  might  plunge  over  them 
both. 

But  never  for  one  moment  could  he  force  himself  to 
regret  or  repent.  Boys  in  their  twenties  already  lay 
in  their  thousands  on  the  fields  over  there.  And  she 
would  far,  far  rather  remember  the  kind  hours  and 
know  that  they  were  hidden*  in  his  heart  for  him  to 
remember  as  he  died — if  he  died !  She  had  lain  upon 
his  breast  holding  him  close  and  fast  and  she  had  sobbed 
hard — hard — but  she  had  said  it  again  and  again  and 
over  and  over  when  he  had  asked  her. 

It  was  this  aspect  of  her  and  things  akin  to  it  which 


ROBIN  75 

had  risen  in  his  incoherent  thoughts  when  he  was  ma 
neuvering  to  get  away  from  the  drawing-room  full  of 
chattering  people.  He  knew  himself  overwhelmed 
again  by  the  exquisite  compassion  because  the  thing 
Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  had  told  him  had  brought  back  all 
the  silent  anguish  of  impotent  childish  rebellion  the 
morning  when  he  had  been  awakened  before  the  day, 
and  during  the  day  when  he  had  thought  his  small 
breast  would  burst  as  the  train  rushed  on  with  him— 
away — away ! 

And  Robin  had  told  him  the  rest — sitting  one  after 
noon  in  the  same  chair  with  him — a  roomy,  dingy  red 
arm-chair  in  an  old  riverside  inn  where  they  had  man 
aged  to  meet  and  had  spent  a  long  rainy  day  together. 
She  had  told  him — in  a  queer  little  strained  voice — 
about  the  waiting — and  waiting — and  waiting.  And 
about  the  certainty  of  her  belief  in  his  coming.  And 
the  tiny  foot  which  grew  numb.  And  the  slow  lump 
climbing  in  her  throat.  And  the  rush  under  the  shrubs 
— and  the  beating  hands — and  cries — and  of  the  rose 
dress  and  socks  and  crushed  hat  covered  with  mud.  She 
had  not  been  piteous  or  dramatic.  She  had  been  so 
simple  that  she  had  broken  his  heart  in  two  and  he  had 
actually  hidden  his  face  in  her  hair. 

"Oh!  Donal,  dear.  You're  crying!"  she  had  said 
and  she  had  broken  down  too  and  for  a  few  seconds  they 
had  cried  together  rocking  in  each  other's  arms,  while 
the  rain  streamed  down  the  window  panes  and  beauti 
fully  shut  them  in,  since  there  are  few  places  more  en 
closing  than  the  little,  dingy  private  parlour  of  a  remote 
English  inn  on  a  ceaselessly  rainy  day. 

It  had  all  come  back  before  he  reached  the  house  in 
Kensington  whose  windows  looked  into  the  thick  leaves 
of  the  plane  trees.  And  at  the  same  time  he  knew 


76  KOBIN 

that  the  burning  anger  which  kept  rising  in  him  was 
perhaps  undue  and  not  quite  fair.  But  he  was  think 
ing  it  had  not  heen  mere  cruel  chance — it  could  have 
been  helped — it  need  never  have  been!  It  had  been 
the  narrow  cold  hard  planning  of  grown-up  people  who 
knew  that  they  were  powerful  enough  to  enforce  any 
hideous  cruelty  on  creatures  who  had  no  defence.  He 
actually  found  his  heated  mind  making  a  statement 
of  the  case  as  wild  as  this  and  its  very  mercilessness 
of  phrase  checked  him.  The  grown-up  person  had  been 
his  mother — his  long-beloved — and  he  was  absolutely 
calling  her  names.  He  pulled  himself  up  vigorously 
and  walked  very  fast.  But  the  heat  did  not  quite  die 
down  and  other  thoughts  surged  up  in  spite  of  his  desire 
to  keep  his  head  and  be  reasonably  calm.  There  had 
been  a  certain  narrowness  in  the  tragic  separation  of 
two  happy  children  if  the  only  reason  for  it  had  been 
that  the  mother  of  one  was  a  pretty,  frivolous,  much 
gossiped  about  woman  belonging  to  a  rather  too  rapid 
set.  And  if  it  had  been  a  reason  then,  how  would  it 
present  itself  now?  What  would  happen  to  an  un 
touched  dream  if  argument  and  disapproval  crashed 
into  it?  If  his  first  intensely  passionate  impulse  had 
been  his  desire  to  save  it  even  from  the  mere  touch 
of  ordinary  talk  and  smiling  glances  because  he  had  felt 
that  they  would  spoil  the  perfect  joy  of  it,  what  would 
not  open  displeasure  and  opposition  make  of  the  down 
on  the  butterfly's  wing — the  bloom  on  the  peach?  It 
was  not  so  he  phrased  in  his  thoughts  the  things  which 
tormented  him,  but  the  figures  would  have  expressed 
his  feeling.  What  if  his  mother  were  angry — though 
he  had  never  seen  her  angry  in  his  life  and  could  only 
approach  the  idea  because  he  had  just  found  out  that 
she  had  once  been  cruel — yes,  it  had  been  cruel !  What 


ROBIN  77 

if  Coombe  actually  chose  to  interfere.  Coombe  with 
his  unmoving  face,  his  perfection  of  exact  phrase  and 
his  cold  almost  inhuman  eye !  After  all  the  matter  con 
cerned  him  closely. 

"While  Houses  threaten  to  crumble  and  Heads  may 
fall  into  the  basket  there  are  things  we  must  remember 
until  we  disappear,"  he  had  said  not  long  ago  with  this 
same  grey  eye  fixed  on  him.  "I  have  no  son.  If 
Marquisates  continue  to  exist  you  will  be  the  Head  of 
the  House  of  Coombe." 

What  would  he  make  of  a  dream  if  he  handled  it? 
What  would  there  be  left?  Donal's  heart  burned 
in  his  side  when  he  recalled  Feather's  impudent  little 
laugh  as  she  had  talked  of  her  "vagabond  Robin," 
her  "small  pariah."  He  was  a  boy  entranced  and  ex 
alted  by  his  first  passion  and  because  he  was  a  sort  of 
young  superman  it  was  not  a  common  one,  though  it 
shared  all  the  unreason  and  impetuous  simplicities  of 
the  most  rudimentary  of  its  kind.  He  could  not  think 
very  calmly  or  logically ;  both  the  heaven  and  the  earth 
in  him  swept  him  along  as  with  the  rush  of  the  spheres. 
It  was  Robin  who  was  foremost  in  all  his  thoughts. 
It  was  because  she  was  so  apart  from  all  the  world 
that  it  had  seemed  beautiful  to  keep  her  so  in  his  heart. 
She  had  always  been  so  aloof  a  little  creature — so  un 
claimed  and  naturally  left  alone.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  she  had  retained  through  the  years  the  untouched 
look  which  he  had  recognised  even  at  the  dance,  in 
the  eyes  which  only  waited  exquisitely  for  kindness  and 
asked  for  love.  No  one  had  ever  owned  her,  no  one 
really  knew  her — people  only  saw  her  loveliness — no 
one  knew  her  but  himself — the  little  beautiful  thing — 
his  own — his  own  little  thing!  Nothing  on  earth 
should  touch  her ! 


78  KOBIN 

Because  his  thinking  ended — as  it  naturally  always 
did — in  such  thoughts  as  these  last,  he  was  obliged  to 
turn  back  when  he  saw  the  plane  trees  and  walk  a  few 
hundred  feet  in  the  opposite  direction  to  give  himself 
time.  He  even  turned  a  corner  and  walked  down  an 
other  street.  It  was  just  as  he  turned  that  poignant 
chance  brought  him  face  to  face  with  a  girl  in  deep  new 
mourning  with  the  border  of  white  crepe  in  the  brim 
of  her  close  hat.  Her  eyes  were  red  and  half-closed  with 
recent  crying  and  she  had  a  piteous  face.  He  knew 
what  it  all  meant  and  involuntarily  raised  his  hand  in 
salute.  He  scarcely  knew  he  did  it  and  for  a  second 
she  seemed  not  to  understand.  But  the  next  second  she 
burst  out  crying  and  hurriedly  took  out  her  handker 
chief  and  hid  her  face  as  she  passed.  One  of  the  boys 
lying  on  the  blood-wet  mire  in  Flanders,  was  Donal's 
bitter  thought,  but  he  had  had  his  kind  hours  to  recall 
at  the  last  moment — and  even  now  she  had  them  too. 

Helen  Muir  from  her  seat  at  the  window  looking  into 
the  thick  leafage  of  the  trees  saw  him  turn  at  the  en 
trance  and  heard  him  mount  the  steps.  The  days  be 
tween  them  and  approaching  separation  were  growing 
shorter  and  shorter.  She  thought  this  every  morning 
when  she  awakened  and  realised  anew  that  the  worst 
of  it  all  was  that  neither  knew  how  short  they  were  and 
that  the  thing  which  was  to  happen  would  be  sudden — 
as  death  is  always  sudden  however  long  one  waits.  He 
had  never  reached  even  that  beginning  of  the  telling 
— whatsoever  he  had  to  tell.  Perhaps  it  was  coming 
now.  She  had  tried  to  prepare  herself  by  endeavouring 
to  imagine  how  he  would  look  when  he  began — a  little 
shy — even  a  little  lovably  awkward  ?  But  his  engaging 
smile — his  quite  darling  smile — would  show  itself  in 
spite  of  him  as  it  always  did. 


KOBIN  79 

But  when  he  came  into  the  room  his  look  was  a  new 
one  to  her.  It  was  not  happy — it  was  not  a  free  look. 
There  was  something  like  troubled  mental  reservation  in 
it — and  when  had  there  ever  been  mental  reservation  be 
tween  them?  Oh,  no — that  must  not — must  not  be 
now  !  Not  now ! 

He  sat  down  with  his  cap  in  his  hand  as  if  he  had  for 
gotten  to  lay  it  aside  or  as  if  he  were  making  a  brief 
call. 

"What  has  happened,  Donal  ?"  she  said.  "Have  you 
come  to  tell  me  that —  ?" 

"No,  not  that — though  that  may  come  any  mo 
ment  now.  It  is  something  else." 

"What  else?" 

"I  don't  know  how  to  begin,"  he  said.  "There  has 
never  been  anything  like  this  before.  But  I  must 
know  from  you  that  a — silly  woman — has  not  been 
telling  me  spiteful  lies.  She  is  the  kind  of  woman  who 
would  say  anything  it  amused  her  to  say." 

"What  was  it  she  said  ?" 

"I  was  dragged  into  a  house  by  Clonmel.  He  said 
he  had  promised  to  drop  in  to  tea.  There  were  a  lot 
of  people.  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  was  there  and  began 
to  talk  to  me." 

"Why  did  you  think  she  might  be  telling  you  spite 
ful  lies  ?" 

"That  is  it,"  he  broke  out  miserably  impetuous. 
"Perhaps  it  may  all  seem  childish  and  unimportant  to 
you.  But  you  have  always  been  perfect.  You  were 
the  one  perfect  being.  I  have  never  doubted  you — " 

"Do  you  doubt  me  now?" 

"Perhaps  no  one  but  myself  could  realise  that  a 
sort  of  sore  spot — yes,  a  sore  spot — was  left  in  my  mind 
for  years  because  of  a  wretched  thing  which  happened 


80  KOBIISr 

when  I  was  a  child.  Did  you  deliberately  take  me  back 
to  Scotland  so  suddenly  that  early  morning?  Was  it 
a  thing  which  could  have  been  helped  ?" 

"I  thought  not,  Donal.  Perhaps  I  was  wrong,  per 
haps  I  was  right." 

"Was  it  because  you  wanted  to  separate  me  from 
a  child  I  was  fond  of?" 

"Yes." 

"And  your  idea  was  that  because  her  mother  was  a 
flighty  woman  with  bad  taste  and  the  wrong  surround 
ing  her  poor  little  girl  would  contaminate  me  ?" 

"It  was  because  her  mother  was  a  light  woman  and  all 
her  friends  were  like  her.  And  your  affection  for  the 
child  was  not  like  a  child's  affection." 

"No,  it  wasn't,"  he  said  and  he  leaned  forward  with 
his  forehead  in  his  hands. 

"I  wanted  to  put  an  end  to  it  before  it  was  too  late. 
I  saw  nothing  but  pain  in  it  for  you.  It  filled  me  with 
heart-broken  fear  to  think  of  the  girl  such  a  mother  and 
such  a  life  would  make." 

"She  was  such  a  little  thing — "  said  Donal,  " — such 
a  tender  mite  of  a  thing !  She's  such  a  little  thing  even 
now." 

"Is  she?"  said  Helen. 

Now  she  knew  he  would  not  tell  her.  And  she  was 
right.  Up  to  that  afternoon  there  had  always  been 
the  chance  that  he  would.  Night  after  night  he  had 
been  on  the  brink  of  telling  her  of  the  dream.  Only 
as  the  beauty  and  wonder  of  it  grew  he  had  each  day 
given  himself  another  day,  and  yet  another  and  another. 
But  he  had  always  thought  the  hour  would  come  and 
he  had  been  sure  she  would  not  grudge  him  a  moment 
he  had  held  from  her.  Now  he  shut  everything  within 
himself. 


ROBIN  81 

"I  wish  you  had  not  done  it.  It  was  a  mistake," 
was  all  he  said.  Suddenly  he  felt  thrown  back  upon 
himself,  heartsick  and  cold.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  could  not  see  her  side  of  the  question.  The 
impassioned  egotism  of  first  love  overwhelmed  him. 

"You  met  her  on  the  night  of  the  old  Duchess'  dance," 
Helen  said. 

"Yes." 

"You  have  met  her  since  ?" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  useless  for  older  people  to  interfere,"  she 
said.  "We  have  loved  each  other  very  much.  We 
have  been  happy  together.  But  I  can  do  nothing  to 
help  you.  Oh!  Donal,  my  own  dear!" 

Her  involuntary  movement  of  putting  her  hand  to 
her  throat  was  a  piteous  gesture. 

"You  are  going  away,"  she  pleaded.  "Don't  let  any 
thing  come  between  us — not  now!  It  is  not  as  if  you 
were  going  to  stay.  When  you  come  back  perhaps — " 

"I  may  never  come  back,"  he  answered  and  as  he 
said  it  he  saw  again  the  widowed  girl  who  had  hurried 
past  him  crying  because  he  had  saluted  her.  And  he 
saw  Robin  as  he  had  seen  her  the  night  before — Robin 
who  belonged  to  no  one — whom  no  one  missed  at  any 
time  when  she  went  in  or  out — who  could  come  and 
go  and  meet  a  man  anywhere  as  if  she  were  the  only 
little  soul  in  London.  And  yet  who  had  always  that 
pretty,  untouched  air. 

"I  only  wanted  to  be  sure.  It  was  a  mistake.  We 
will  never  speak  of  it  again,"  he  added. 

"If  it  was  a  mistake,  forgive  it.  It  was  only  be 
cause  I  could  not  hear  that  your  life  should  not  be  beau 
tiful.  These  are  not  like  other  days.  Oh !  Donal,  my 
dear,  my  dear !"  And  she  broke  into  weeping  and  took 


82  KOBLKT 

him  in  her  arms  and  he  held  her  and  kissed  her  tenderly. 
But  whatsoever  happened — whatsoever  he  did  he  knew 
that  if  he  was  to  save  and  hold  his  bliss  to  the  end  he 
could  not  tell  her  now. 


CHAPTER  X 

MRS.  BENNETT'S  cottage  on  the  edge  of  Mar- 
sham  Wood  seemed  to  Robin  when  she  first 
saw  it  to  be  only  a  part  of  a  fairy  tale.  It 
is  true  that  only  in  certain  bits  of  England  and  in  pic 
tures  in  books  of  fairy  tales  did  one  see  cottages  of  its 
kind,  and  in  them  always  lived  with  their  grandmothers 
— in  the  fairy  stories  as  Robin  remembered — girls 
who  would  in  good  time  be  discovered  by  wandering 
youngest  sons  of  fairy  story  kings.  The  wood  of 
great  oaks  and  beeches  spread  behind  and  at  each  side 
of  it  and  seemed  to  have  no  end  in  any  land  on 
earth.  It  nestled  against  its  primaeval  looking  back 
ground  in  a  nook  of  its  own.  Under  the  broad  branches 
of  the  oaks  and  beeches  tall  ferns  grew  so  thick  that 
they  formed  a  forest  of  their  own — a  lower,  lighter,  lacy 
forest  where  foxglove  spires  pierced  here  and  there, 
and  rabbits  burrowed  and  sniffed  and  nibbled,  and 
pheasants  hid  nests  and  sometimes  sprang  up  rocketting 
startlingly.  Birds  were  thick  in  the  wood  and  trilled 
love  songs,  or  twittered  and  sang  low  in  the  hour  before 
their  bedtime,  filling  the  twilight  with  clear  adorable 
sounds.  The  fairy-tale  cottage  was  whitewashed  and  its 
broad  eaved  roof  was  thatched.  Hollyhocks  stood  in 
haughty  splendour  against  its  walls  and  on  either  side 
its  path.  The  latticed  windows  were  diamond-paned 
and  their  inside  ledges  filled  with  flourishing  fuchsias 
and  trailing  white  campanula,  and  mignonette.  The 
same  flowers  grew  thick  in  the  crowded  blooming  garden. 

83 


84  ROBIX 

And  there  were  nests  in  the  hawthorn  hedge.  And 
there  was  a  small  wicket  gate. 

When  Robin  caught  sight  of  it  she  wondered — for  a 
moment — if  she  were  going  to  cry.  Only  because  it 
was  part  of  the  dream  and  could  be  nothing  else — un 
less  one  wakened. 

On  the  tiny  porch  covered  with  honeysuckle  in  bloom, 
a  little,  old  fairy  woman  was  sitting  knitting  a  khaki 
sock  very  fast.  She  wore  a  clean  print  gown  and  a 
white  apron  and  a  white  cap  with  a  frilled  border. 
She  had  a  stick  and  a  nutcracker  face  and  a  pair  of 
large  iron  bowed  spectacles.  She  was  so  busy  that  she 
did  not  seem  to  hear  Robin  as  she  walked  up  the  path 
between  the  borders  of  pinks  and  snapdragons,  but 
when  she  was  quite  close  to  her  she  glanced  up. 

Robin  thought  she  looked  almost  frightened  when  she 
saw  her.  She  got  up  and  made  an  apologetic  curtsey. 

"Eh !"  she  ejaculated,  "to  think  of  me  not  hearing 
you.  I  do  beg  your  pardon,  Miss,  I  do  that.  I  was 
really  waiting  here  to  be  ready  for  you." 

"Thank  you.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Bennett,"  Robin  an 
swered  in  a  sweet  hurry  to  reassure  her.  "I  hope  you 
are  very  well."  And  she  held  out  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Bennett  had  only  been  shocked  at  her  own  ap 
parent  inattention  to  duty.  She  was  not  really  fright 
ened  and  her  nut-cracker  face  illuminated  itself  with  de 
lighted  smiles. 

"I  don't  hear  very  well  at  the  best  of  times,"  she  said. 
"And  I've  got  a  bit  of  a  cold.  Just  worry,  Miss,  just 
worry  it  is — along  of  this  'ere  war  and  my  grandsons 
going  marching  off  every  few  days  seems  like.  Dick, 
that's  the  youngest  as  was  always  my  pet,  he's  the  last 
and  he'll  be  off  any  minute — and  these  is  his  socks." 

Robin  actually  picked  up  a  sock  and  patted  it  softly 


ROBEST  85 

— with  a  childish  quiver  of  her  chin.     It  seemed  alive. 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  said.     "Oh!  dear!     Oh!  dear!" 

Mrs.  Bennett  winked  tears  out  of  her  eyes  hastily. 

"Me  being  hard  of  hearing  is  no  excuse  for  me  talk 
ing  about  myself  first  thing.  Dick,  he's  an  Englishman 
— and  they're  all  Englishmen — and  it's  Englishmen 
that's  got  to  stand  up  and  do  their  duty — same  as  they 
did  at  Waterloo."  She  swallowed  valiantly  the  lump 
in  her  throat.  "Her  grace  wrote  to  me  about  you, 
Miss,  with  her  own  kind  hand.  She  said  the  cottage 
was  so  quiet  and  pretty  you  wouldn't  mind  it  being  little 
— and  me  being  a  bit  deaf." 

"I  shall  mind  nothing,"  said  Robin.  She  raised 
her  voice  and  tried  to  speak  very  distinctly  so  as  to  make 
sure  that  the  old  fairy  woman  would  hear  her.  "It  is 
the  most  beautiful  cottage  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  It 
is  like  a  cottage  in  a  fairy  story." 

"That's  what  the  vicar  says,  Miss,  my  dear,"  was  Mrs. 
Bennett's  cheerful  reply.  "He  says  it  ought  to  be  hid 
some  way  because  if  the  cheap  trippers  found  it  out 
they'd  wear  the  life  out  of  me  with  pestering  me  to 
give  'em  six-penny  teas.  They'd  get  none  from  me!" 
quite  fiercely.  "Her  grace  give  it  to  me  her  own  self 
and  it's  on  Mersham  land  and  not  a  lawyer  on  earth 
could  put  me  out." 

She  became  quite  active  and  bustling — picking  a 
spray  of  honeysuckle  and  a  few  sprigs  of  mignonette 
from  near  the  doorway  and  handing  them  to  Robin. 

"Your  room's  full  of  'em,"  she  said,  "them  and  musk 
and  roses.  You'll  sleep  and  wake  in  the  midst  of 
flowers  and  birds  singing  and  bees  humming.  And  I 
can  give  you  rich  milk  and  home-baked  bread,  God 
bless  you!  You  are  welcome.  Come  in,  my  pretty 
dear — Miss." 


86  ROBIN 

The  girl  came  down  from  London  to  the  cottage  on 
the  wood's  edge  several  times  during  the  weeks  that 
followed.  It  was  easy  to  reach  and  too  beautiful  and 
lone  and  strange  to  stay  away  from.  The  War  ceased 
where  the  wood  began.  Mrs.  Bennett  delighted  in  her 
and,  regarding  the  Duchess  as  a  sort  of  adored  deity, 
would  have  served  her  lodger  on  bended  knee  if  custom 
had  permitted.  Robin  could  always  make  her  hear, 
and  she  sat  and  listened  so  tenderly  to  her  stories  of 
her  grandsons  that  there  grew  up  between  them  an 
absolute  affection. 

"And  yet  we  don't  see  each  other  often,"  the  old  fairy 
woman  had  said.  "You  flit  in  like,  and  flit  away  again 
as  if  you  was  a  butterfly,  I  think  sometimes  when  I'm 
sitting  here  alone.  When  you  come  to  stay  you're 
mostly  flitting  about  the  wood  and  I  only  see  you  bit 
by  bit.  But  I  couldn't  tell  you,  Miss,  my  dear,  what 
it's  like  to  me.  You  do  love  the  wood,  don't  you  ? 
It's  a  fairy  place  too — same  as  this  is." 

"It's  all  fairy,  Mrs.  Bennett,"  Robin  said.  "Per 
haps  I  am  a  fairy  too  when  I  am  here.  Nothing  seems 
quite  earthly." 

She  bent  forward  suddenly  and  took  the  old  face 
in  her  hands  and  kissed  it. 

"Eh!  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  the  old  fairy  woman 
chuckled  sweetly.  "I  used  to  hear  tales  of  fairies  in 
Devonshire  in  my  young  days.  And  you  do  look  like 
something  witched — but  you've  been  witched  for  hap 
piness.  Babies  look  that  way  for  a  bit  sometimes — as 
if  they  brought  something  with  them  when  they  come 
to  earth." 

"Yes,"  answered  Robin.     "Yes." 

It  was  true  that  she  only  flitted  in  and  out,  and  that 


EOBIN  87 

she  spent  hours  in  the  depths  of  the  wood,  and  always 
came  back  as  if  from  fairy  land. 

Once  she  had  a  holiday  of  nearly  a  week.  She  came 
down  from  town  one  afternoon  in  a  pretty  white  frock 
and  hat  and  white  shoes  and  with  an  air  of  such  delicate 
radiance  about  her  that  Mrs.  Bennett  would  have 
clutched  her  to  her  breast,  but  for  long-ago  gained 
knowledge  of  the  respect  due  to  those  connected  with 
great  duchesses. 

"Like  a  new  young  bride  you  look,  my  pretty  dear — 
Miss,"  she  cried  out  when  she  first  saw  her  as  she  came 
up  the  path  between  the  hollyhocks  in  the  garden. 
"God's  surely  been  good  to  you  this  day.  There's  some 
thing  like  heaven  in  your  face."  Robin  stood  still  a 
moment  looking  like  the  light  at  dawn  and  breathing 
with  soft  quickness  as  if  she  had  come  in  haste. 

"God  has  been  good  to  me  for  a  long  time,"  she  said. 


In  the  deep  wood  she  walked  with  Donal  night  after 
night  when  the  stillness  was  like  heaven  itself.  ISTow 
and  then  a  faint  rustle  among  the  ferns  or  the  half  awak 
ened  movement  and  sleepy  note  of  a  bird  in  the  leaves 
slightly  stirred  the  silence,  but  that  was  all.  Lances 
of  moonlight  pierced  through  the  branches  and  their 
slow  feet  made  no  sound  upon  the  thick  moss.  Here 
and  there  pale  foxglove  spires  held  up  their  late  blossoms 
like  flower  spirits  in  the  dim  light 

Donal  thought — the  first  night  she  came  to  him  softly 
through  the  ferns — that  her  coming  was  like  that  of 
some  fair  thing  not  of  earth — a  vision  out  of  some  old 
legend  or  ancient  poem  of  faery.  But  he  marched  to- 


88  ROBUST 

wards  her,  soldierly — like  a  young  Lohengrin  whose 
silver  mail  had  changed  to  khaki.  There  was  no  longer 
war  in  the  world — there  never  had  been. 

"I  brought  it  with  me,"  he  said  and  took  her  close  in 
his  arms.  For  a  few  minutes  the  wood  seemed  more 
still  than  before. 

"Do  you  hear  my  heart  beat  ?"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  feel  it.     Do  you  hear  mine  ?"  she  whispered. 

"We  love  each  other  so !"  he  breathed.  "We  love 
each  other  so!" 

"Yes,"  she  answered.     "Yes." 

Did  every  one  who  saw  him  know  how  beautiful  he 
was  ?  Oh  his  smile  that  loved  her  so  and  made  her 
feel  there  was  no  fear  or  loneliness  left  on  earth !  He 
was  so  tall  and  straight  and  strong — a  young  soldier 
statue!  When  he  laughed  her  heart  always  gave  a 
strange  little  leap.  It  was  such  a  lovely  sound.  His 
very  hands  were  beautiful — with  long,  strong  smooth 
fingers  and  smooth  firm  palms.  Oh !  Donal !  Donal ! 
And  while  she  smiled  as  a  little  angel  might  smile,  small 
sobs  of  joy  filled  her  throat. 

They  sat  together  among  the  ferns,  close  side  by 
side.  He  showed  her  the  thing  he  had  brought  with 
him.  It  was  a  very  slender  chain  of  gold  with  a  plain 
gold  ring  hung  on  it.  He  put  the  chain  around  her 
neck  but  slipped  the  ring  on  her  finger  and  kissed  it 
again  and  again. 

"Wear  it  when  we  are  together,"  he  whispered.  "I 
want  to  see  it.  It  makes  you  mine  as  much  as  if  I  had 
put  it  on  in  a  church  with  a  huge  organ  playing." 

"I  should  be  yours  without  it,"  answered  Robin, 
"I  am  yours." 

"Yes,"  he  whispered  again.  "You  are  mine.  And  1 
am  yours.  It  always  was  so — since  the  morning  stars 
sang  together." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THERE  are  more  women  than  those  in  Belgium 
who  are  being  swept  over  by  the  chariots  of  war 
and  trampled  on  by  marching  feet,"  the  Duch 
ess  of  Darte  said  to  a  group  of  her  women  friends  on  a 
certain  afternoon. 

The  group  had  met  to  work  and  some  one  had  touched 
on  a  woeful  little  servant-maid  drama  which  had  pain 
fully  disclosed  itself  in  her  household.  A  small,  plain 
kitchen  maid  had  "walked  out"  in  triumphant  ecstasy 
with  a  soldier  who,  a  few  weeks  after  bidding  her  good 
bye,  had  been  killed  in  Belgium.  She  had  been 
brought  home  to  her  employer's  house  by  a  policeman 
who  had  dragged  her  out  of  the  Serpentine.  An  old 
story  had  become  a  modern  one.  In  her  childish 
ignorance  and  terror  of  her  plight  she  had  seen  no  other 
way,  but  she  had  not  had  courage  to  face  more  than  very 
shallow  water,  with  the  result  of  finding  herself  merely 
sticking  in  the  mud  and  wailing  aloud. 

"The  policeman  was  a  kind-hearted,  sensible  fellow," 
said  the  relator  of  the  incident.  "He  had  a  family  of 
his  own  and  what  he  said  was  'She  looked  such  a  poor 
little  drowned  rat  of  a  thing  I  couldn't  make  up  my 
mind  to  run  her  in,  ma'am.  This  'ere  war's  responsible 
for  a  lot  more  than  what  the  newspapers  tell  about. 
Young  chaps  in  uniform  having  to  brace  up  and  perhaps 
lying  awake  in  the  night  thinking  over  what  the  eve 
ning  papers  said — and  young  women  they've  been  sweet- 
heartin'  with — they  get  wild,  in  a  way,  and  cling  to  each 


90  KOBIET 

other  and  feel  desperate — and  he  talks  and  she  cries — 
and  he  may  have  his  head  blown  off  in  a  week's  time. 
And  who  wonders  that  there's  trouble/  Do  you  know 
he  actually  told  me  that  there  were  a  number  of  girls 
he  was  keeping  a  watch  on.  He  said  he'd  begun  to 
recognise  a  certain  look  in  their  eyes  when  they  walked 
alone  in  the  park.  He  said  it  was  a  'stark,  frightened 
look.7  I  didn't  know  what  he  meant,  but  it  gave  me  a 
shudder." 

"I  think  I  know,"  said  the  Duchess.  "Poor, 
wretched  children!  There  ought  to  be  a  sort  of  mora 
torium  in  the  matter  of  social  laws.  The  old  rules  don't 
hold.  We  are  facing  new  conditions.  This  is  a  thing 
for  women  to  take  in  hand,  practically,  as  they  are 
taking  in  hand  other  work.  It  must  be  done  absolutely 
without  prejudice.  There  is  no  time  to  lecture  or  con 
demn  or  even  deplore.  There  is  only  time  to  try  to 
heal  wounds  and  quiet  maddening  pain  and  save  life." 

Lady  Loth  well  took  the  subject  up. 

"In  the  country  places  and  villages,  where  the  new 
army  is  swarming  to  be  billeted,  the  clergymen  and  their 
wives  are  greatly  agitated.  Even  in  times  of  peace 
one's  vicar's  wife  tells  one  stories  in  shocked  whispers 
of  'immorality7 — though  the  rustic  mind  does  not  seem 
to  regard  it  as  particularly  immoral.  An  illegal  baby 
is  generally  accepted  with  simple  resignation  or  merely 
a  little  fretful  complaint  even  in  quite  decent  cottages. 
It  is  called — rather  prettily,  I  think — 'a  love  child7  and 
the  nicer  the  grandparents  are,  the  better  they  treat  it. 
Mrs.  Gracey,  the  wife  of  our  rector  at  Mowbray  Wells 
told  me  a  few  days  ago  that  she  and  her  husband  were 
quite  in  despair  over  the  excited,  almost  lawless,  holi 
day  air  of  the  village  girls.  There  are  so  many  young 
men  about  and  uniforms  have  what  she  calls  'such  a 


KOBDsT  91 

dreadful  effect.'  Giddy  and  unreliable  young  women 
are  wandering  about  the  lanes  and  fields  with  stranger 
sweethearts  at  all  hours.  Even  girls  who  have  been 
good  Sunday-school  scholars  are  becoming  insubordinate. 
She  did  not  in  the  least  mean  to  be  improperly  humor 
ous — in  fact  she  was  quite  tragic  when  she  said  that 
the  rector  felt  that  he  ought  to  marry,  on  the  spot,  every 
rambling  couple  he  met.  He  had  already  performed 
the  ceremony  in  a  number  of  cases  when  he  felt  it  was 
almost  criminally  rash  and  idiotic,  or  would  have  been 
in  time  of  peace." 

"That  was  what  I  meant  by  speaking  of  the  women 
who  were  being  swept  over  by  the  chariot  of  war,"  said 
the  Duchess.  "It  involves  issues  the  women  who  can 
think  must  hold  in  their  minds  and  treat  judicially. 
One  cannot  moralise  and  be  shocked  before  an  advance- 
ing  tidal  wave.  It  has  always  been  part  of  the  unreason 
and  frenzy  of  times  of  war.  When  Death  is  near,  Life 
fights  hard  for  itself.  It  does  not  care  who  or  what  it 
strikes." 


The  tidal  wave  swept  on  and  the  uninitiated  who 
formed  the  mass  of  humanity  in  every  country  in  the 
world,  reading  with  feverish  anxiety  almost  hourly 
newspaper  extras  every  day,  tried  to  hide  a  secret  fear 
that  no  one  knew  what  was  really  happening  or  could 
trust  to  the  absolute  truth  of  any  spoken  or  published 
statement.  The  exultant  hope  of  to-day  was  dashed  to 
morrow.  The  despair  of  the  morning  was  lightened  by 
gleams  of  hope  before  night  closed,  and  was  darkened 
and  lightened  again  and  again.  Great  cities  and  towns 
aroused  themselves  from  a  half-somnolent  belief  in 


92  ROBIN 

security.  Village  by  village  England  awakened  to 
what  she  faced  in  common  with  an  amazed  and  half  in 
credulous  world.  The  amazement  and  incredulity  were 
founded  upon  a  certain  mistaken  belief  in  a  world 
predominance  of  the  laws  of  decency  and  civilisation. 
The  statement  of  piety  and  morality  that  the  world  in 
question  was  a  bad  one,  filled  with  crime,  had  some 
how  so  far  been  accepted  with  a  guileless  reservation 
in  the  matter  of  a  ruling  majority  whose  lapses  from 
virtue  were  at  least  not  openly  vaunted  treachery,  blows 
struck  at  any  unprepared  back  presenting  itself,  merci 
less  attacks  on  innocence  and  weakness,  and  savage 
gluttings  of  lust,  of  fury,  with  exultant  paeans  of  self- 
glorification  and  praise  of  a  justly  applauding  God. 
Before  such  novelty  of  onslaught  the  British  mind  had 
breathless  moments  of  feeling  itself  stupid  and  inca 
pably  aghast.  But  after  its  first  deep  draughts  of  the 
cup  of  staggering  the  nation  braced  up  a  really  muscular 
back  and  stood  upon  hard,  stout  legs  and  firm  feet,  im 
movable  and  fixed  on  solid  British  earth. 

Incompetent  raw  troops  gathered  from  fields,  shops 
and  desks,  half  trained,  half  clad,  half  armed,  according 
to  pessimistic  report,  fared  forth  across  the  narrow 
Channel  and  did  strangely  competent  things — this  be 
ing  man's  way  when  in  dire  moments  needs  must  be. 
Riff-raff  exalted  itself  and  also  died  competently  enough. 
The  apparently  aimless  male  offspring  of  the  so-called 
useless  rich  and  great  died  competently  enough  with  the 
rest.  The  Roll  of  Honour  raked  fore  and  aft.  The 
youngsters  who  had  tangoed  best  and  had  shone  in 
cabarets  were  swept  away  as  grass  by  scythes. 

"Will  any  one  be  left?"  white  Robin  shuddered, 
clinging  to  Donal  in  the  wood  at  night.  "Every  day 
there  are  new  ones.  Almost  every  one  who  has  gone! 


ROBIN"  03 

Kathryn  says  that  no  one — no  one  will  ever  come  back !" 

"Hush — sh!  Hush — sh!"  whispered  Donal. 
"Hush — sh!  little  lovely  love!"  And  his  arms  closed 
so  tightly  around  her  that  she  could  for  a  few  moments 
scarcely  breathe. 

The  Duchess  had  much  work  for  her  to  do  and  was 
glad  to  see  that  the  girl  looked  well  and.  untired.  When 
she  was  at  home  in  Eaton  Square  her  grace  was  even 
more  strict  about  the  walks  and  country  holidays  than 
she  had  been  when  she  was  away. 

"Health  and  strength  were  never  so  much  needed," 
she  said.  "We  must  keep  our  bodies  in  readiness  for 
any  test  or  strain." 

This  notwithstanding,  there  was  at  last  a  morning 
when  Robin  looked  as  though  she  had  not  slept  well.  It 
was  so  unusual  a  thing  that  the  Duchess  spoke  of  it. 

"I  hope  you  have  not  been  sitting  up  late  at  your 
work  ?"  she  said. 

"No.  Thank  you,"  Robin  answered.  "I  went  to 
bed  last  night  at  ten  o'clock." 

The  Duchess  looked  at  her  seriously.  Never  before 
had  she  seen  her  with  eyes  whose  misted  heaviness 
suggested  tears.  Was  it  possible  that  there  seemed 
something  at  once  strained  and  quivering  about  her 
mouth — as  if  she  were  making  an  effort  to  force  the 
muscles  to  hold  it  still. 

"I  hope  you  would  tell  me  if  you  had  a  headache. 
You  must,  you  know,  my  dear." 

Robin's  slight  movement  nearer  to  her  had  the  air  of 
being  almost  involuntary — as  if  it  were  impelled  by  an 
uncontrollable  yearning  to  be  a  little  near  something — 
some  one.  The  strained  and  quivering  look  was  even 
more  noticeable  and  her  lifted  eyes  singularly  expressed 
something  she  was  trying  to  hold  back. 


94  ROBIN 

"Thank  you— indeed!"  she  said.  "But  it  isn't 
headache.  It  is — things  I  could  not  help  thinking 
about  in  the  night." 

The  Duchess  took  her  hand  and  patted  it  with  firm 
gentleness. 

"You  mustn't,  my  dear.  You  must  try  hard  not  to 
do  it.  We  shall  be  of  no  use  if  we  let  our  minds  go. 
We  must  try  to  force  ourselves  into  a  sort  of  deafness 
and  blindness  in  certain  directions.  I  am  trying — with 
all  my  might." 

"I  know  I  must,"  Robin  answered  not  too  steadily. 
"I  must — more  than  most  people.  I'm  not  brave  and 
strong.  I'm  weak  and  cowardly — cowardly."  Her 
breath  caught  itself  and  she  went  on  quickly,  "Work 
helps  more  than  anything  else.  I  want  to  work  all  the 
time.  Please  may  I  begin  the  letters  now?" 

She  was  bending  over  her  desk  when  Lord  Coombe 
came  in  earlier  than  was  his  custom.  The  perfection  of 
his  dress,  his  smooth  creaselessness  and  quiet  harmony 
of  color  and  line  seemed  actually  to  add  to  the  aged  look 
of  his  face.  His  fine  rigidity  was  worn  and  sallowed. 
After  his  greeting  phrases  he  stood  for  a  space  quite 
silent  while  the  Duchess  watched  him  as  if  waiting. 

"He  has  gone?"  she  said  presently.  She  spoke  in 
quite  a  low  voice,  but  it  reached  Robin's  desk. 

"Yes.  At  dawn.  The  suddenness  and  secrecy  of 
these  goings  add  to  the  poignancy  of  them.  I  saw  him 
but  he  did  not  see  me.  I  found  out  the  hour  and  made 
an  effort.  He  is  not  my  boy,  but  I  wanted  to  look  at 
him.  It  was  perhaps  for  the  last  time.  Good  God! 
What  a  crime!" 

He  spoke  low  himself  and  rather  quickly  and  with 
a  new  tone  in  his  voice — as  if  he  had  been  wrenched 
and  was  in  pain. 


ROBLN"  95 

"I  am  not  in  a  heroic  mood.  I  was  only  sick  and 
furious  when  I  watched  them  go  by.  They  were  a  hand 
some,  clean-built  lot.  But  he  stood  out — the  finest 
among  them.  His  mere  beauty  and  strength  brought 
hideous  thoughts  into  one's  mind — thoughts  of  German 
deviltries  born  of  hell." 

Robin  was  looking  at  her  hand  which  had  stopped 
writing.  She  could  not  keep  it  still.  She  must  get 
up  and  go  to  her  own  rooms.  Would  her  knees  shake 
under  her  like  that  when  she  tried  to  stand  on  her  feet  ? 
The  low  talking  went  on  and  she  scarcely  heard  what 
was  said.  She  and  Donal  had  always  known  this  was 
coming;  they  had  known  it  even  the  first  day  they  had 
talked  together  in  the  Garden.  The  knowledge  had 
been  the  spectre  always  waiting  hidden  at  some  turn  in 
the  path  ahead.  That  was  why  they  had  been  so  fright 
ened  and  desperate  and  hurried.  They  had  clung  to 
gether  and  shut  their  eyes  and  caught  at  the  few  hours 
— the  few  heavenly  hours.  He  had  said  it  would  come 
suddenly.  But  she  had  not  thought  it  would  be  as  sud 
den  as  this.  Last  night  a  soldier  had  brought  a  few 
wild,  passionate  blotted  lines  to  her.  Yes,  they  had 
been  blotted  and  blistered.  She  pushed  her  chair  back 
and  began  to  rise  from  it. 

There  had  been  a  few  seconds  of  dead  silence.  Lord 
Coombe  had  been  standing  thinking  and  biting  his  lip. 
"He  is  gone !"  he  said.  "Gone !" 

They  did  not  notice  Eobin  as  she  left  the  room.  Out 
side  the  door  she  stood  in  the  hall  and  looked  up  the 
staircase  piteously.  It  looked  so  long  and  steep  that 
she  felt  it  was  like  a  path  up  a  mountain.  But  she 
moved  towards  the  bottom  step  and  began  to  climb 
stair  by  stair — stair  by  stair — dragging  at  the  rail 
of  the  balustrade. 


96  KOBIN 

When  she  reached  her  room  she  went  in  and  shut 
the  door.  She  fell  down  upon  the  floor  and  sat  there. 
Long  ago  his  mother  had  taken  him  away  from  her. 
Now  the  War  had  taken  him.  The  spectre  stood 
straight  in  the  path  before  her. 

"It  was  such  a  short  time/'  she  said,  shaking.  "And 
he  is  gone.  And  the  fairy  wood  is  there  still — and 
the  ferns ! — All  the  nights — always !" 

And  what  happened  next  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
written  about — though  at  the  time  the  same  thing  was 
perhaps  at  that  very  hour  happening  in  houses  all  over 
England. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  effect  of  something  like  unreality  produced 
in  the  mind  of  the  mature  and  experienced 
by  a  girl  creature,  can  only  be  equaled  by  the 
intensity  of  the  sense  of  realness  in  the  girl  herself. 
That  centre  of  the  world  in  which  each  human  being 
exists  is  in  her  case  more  poignantly  a  centre  than  any 
other.  She  passes  smiling  or  serious,  a  thing  of  untried 
eyes  and  fair  unmarked  smoothness  of  texture,  and 
onlookers  who  have  lived  longer  than  she  know  that  the 
unmarked  untriedness  is  a  sign  that  so  far  "nothing" 
has  happened  in  her  life  and  in  most  cases  believe  that 
"nothing"  is  happening.  They  are  quite  sure  they 
know — long  after  the  thing  has  ceased  to  be  true.  The 
surface  of  her  is  so  soft  and  fair,  and  its  lack  of  any  sug 
gestion  of  abysses  or  chasms  seems  to  make  them  incred 
ible  things.  But  the  centre  of  the  world  contains  all 
things  and  when  one  is  at  the  beginning  of  life  and  sees 
them  for  the  first  time  they  assume  strange  proportions. 
It  enters  a  room,  it  talks  lightly  or  sweetly,  it  whirls 
about  in  an  airy  dance,  this  pretty  untested  thing ;  and, 
among  those  for  whom  the  belief  in  the  reality  of 
strange  proportions  has  modified  itself  through  long  ex 
perience,  only  those  of  the  thinking  habit  realise  that  at 
any  moment  the  testing — the  marking  with  deep  scores 
may  begin  or  has  perhaps  begun  already.  At  eighteen 
or  twenty  a  fluctuation  of  flower-petal  tint  which  may 
mean  an  imperfect  night  can  signify  no  really  important 
cause.  What  could  eighteen  or  twenty  have  found  to 

97 


98  KOBDT 

think  about  in  night  watches  ?  But  in  its  centre  of  the 
world  as  it  stands  on  the  stage  with  the  curtain  rolling 
up,  those  who  have  lived  longer — so  very  long — are  only 
the  dim  audience  sitting  in  the  shadowy  auditorium 
looking  on  at  passionately  real  life  with  which  they  have 
really  nothing  whatever  to  do,  because  what  they  have 
seen  is  past  and  what  they  have  learned  has 
lost  its  importance  and  meaning  with  the  chang 
ing  of  the  years.  The  lying  awake  and  tossing  on 
pillows — if  lying  awake  there  is — has  its  cause  in  real 
joys — or  griefs — not  in  things  atrophied  by  time.  So 
it  seems  on  the  stage,  in  the  first  act,  If  the  curtain 
goes  down  on  anguish  and  despair  it  seems  equally  the 
pitiless  truth  that  it  can  never  rise  again;  the  play  is 
ended ;  the  lights  go  out  forever ;  the  theatre  crumbles  to 
dust ;  the  world  comes  to  an  end.  But  the  dim  audience 
sitting  in  the  shadow  do  not  generally  know  this. 

To  those  who  came  in  and  out  of  the  house  in  Eaton 
Square  the  figure  sitting  at  the  desk  writing  letters  or 
taking  orders  from  the  Duchess  was  that  of  the  uncon- 
sidered  and  unreal  girl.  Among  the  changing  groups 
of  women  with  intensely  absorbed  and  often  strained 
faces  the  kind-hearted  observing  ones  were  given  to  no 
ticing  Robin  and  speaking  to  her  almost  affectionately 
because  she  was  so  attractive  an  object  as  well  as  so  in 
dustriously  faithful  to  her  work.  Girls  who  were  Jac 
queminot-rose  flushed  and  who  looked  up  to  answer 
people  with  eyes  like  an  antelope's  were  not  customarily 
capable  of  concentrating  their  attention  entirely  upon 
brief  letters  of  request  and  lists  of  necessaries  for  hos 
pitals  and  comfort  kits.  This  type  was  admitted  to  be 
frequently  found  readier  for  service  in  the  preparation 
of  entertainments  "for  the  benefit  of" — more  especially 
when  such  benefits  took  the  form  of  dancing.  But  the 


ROBIN  99 

Duchess'  little  Miss  Lawless  came  and  went  on  errands, 
wasting  no  time.  She  never  forgot  things  or  was  slack 
in  any  way.  Her  antelope  eyes  expressed  a  kind  of 
yearning  eagerness  to  do  all  she  could  without  a  mo 
ment's  delay. 

"She  works  as  if  it  were  a  personal  thing  with  her," 
Lady  Lothwell  once  said  thoughtfully.  "I  have  seen 
girls  wear  that  look  when  they  are  war  brides  or  have 
lovers  or  brothers  at  the  front." 

But  she  remained  to  the  world  generally  only  a  rather 
specially  lovely  specimen  of  the  somewhat  unreal  young 
being  with  whom  great  agonies  and  terrors  had  but  lit 
tle  to  do. 

On  a  day  when  the  Duchess  had  a  cold  and  was 
obliged  to  remain  in  her  room  Robin  was  with  her,  writ 
ing  and  making  notes  of  instruction  at  her  bedside.  In 
the  afternoon  a  cold  and  watery  sun  making  its  way 
through  the  window  threw  a  chill  light  on  her  as  she 
drew  near  with  some  papers  in  her  hand.  It  was  the 
revealing  of  this  light  which  made  the  Duchess  look  at 
her  curiously. 

"You  are  not  quite  as  blooming  as  you  were,  my 
child,"  she  said.  "About  two  months  ago  you  were 
particularly  blooming.  Lady  Lothwell  and  Lord 
Coombe  and  several  other  people  noticed  it  You  have 
not  been  taking  your  walks  as  regularly  as  you  did. 
Let  me  look  at  you."  She  took  her  hand  and  drew  her 
nearer.  "No.  This  will  not  do." 

Robin  stood  very  still. 

"How  could  any  one  be  blooming!"  broke  from  her. 

"You  are  thinking  about  things  in  the  night  again," 
said  the  Duchess. 

"Yes,"  said  Robin.  "Every  night.  Sometimes  all 
night." 


100  ROBIN 

The  Duchess  watched  her  anxiously. 

"It's  so — lonely!"  There  was  a  hint  of  hysteric 
breakdown  in  the  exclamation.  "How  can  I — bear 
it!"  She  turned  and  went  back  to  her  writing  table 
and  there  she  sat  down  and  hid  her  face,  trembling  in 
an  extraordinary  way. 

"You  are  as  unhappy  as  that?"  said  the  Duchess. 
"And  you  are  lonely  ?" 

"All  the  world  is  lonely,"  Robin  cried — not  weeping, 
only  shaking.  "Everything  is  left  to  itself  to  suffer. 
God*  has  gone  away." 

The  Duchess  trembled  a  little  herself.  She  too  had 
hideously  felt  something  like  the  same  thing  at  times  of 
late.  But  this  soft  shaking  thing — !  There  shot  into 
her  mind  like  a  bolt  a  sudden  thought.  Was  this  some 
thing  less  inevitable — something  more  personal?  She 
wondered  what  would  be  best  to  say. 

"Even  older  people  lose  their  nerve  sometimes,"  she 
decided  on  at  last.  "When  you  said  that  work  was  the 
greatest  help  you  were  right.  Work — and  as  much 
sleep  as  one  can  get,  and  walking  and  fresh  air.  And 
we  must  help  each  other — old  and  young.  I  want  you 
to  help  me,  child.  I  need  you." 

Robin  stood  up  and  steadied  herself  somehow.  She 
took  up  a  letter  in  a  hand  not  yet  quite  still. 

"Please  need  me,"  she  said.  "Please  let  me  do 
everything — anything — and  never  stop.  If  I  never 
stop  in  the  day  time  perhaps  I  shall  sleep  better  at 
night." 

As  there  came  surging  in  day  by  day  bitter  and  cruel 
waves  of  war  news — stories  of  slaughter  by  land  and 
sea,  of  massacre  in  simple  places,  of  savagery  wrought 
on  wounded  men  and  prisoners  in  a  hydrophobia  of  hate 
let  loose,  it  was  ill  lying  awake  in  the  dark  remembering 


101 


loved  beings  surrounded  by  /tho.tfojrafc.of  ail, the'  world 
has  ever  known,  Ilobiu  was  afraid  to  look  at  the  news 
papers  which  her  very  duties  themselves  obliged  her  to 
familiarise  herself  with,  and  she  could  not  close  her 
ears.  With  battleship  raids  on  harmless  coast  towns, 
planned  merely  to  the  end  of  the  wanton  killing  of  such 
unconsidered  trifles  of  humanity  as  little  children  and 
women  and  men  at  their  every-day  work,  the  circle  of 
horror  seemed  to  draw  itself  in  closely. 

Zeppelin  raids  leaving  fragments  of  bodies  on  pave 
ments  and  broken  things  under  fallen  walls,  were  not  so 
near  as  the  women  who  dragged  themselves  back  to  their 
work  with  death  in  their  faces  written  large — the  death 
of  husband  or  son  or  lover.  These  brought  realities 
close  indeed. 

"I  don't  know  how  he  died,"  one  of  them  said  to  the 
Duchess.  "I  don't  know  how  long  it  took  him  to  die. 
I  don't  want  to  be  told.  I  am  glad  he  is  dead.  Yes,  I 
am  glad.  I  wish  the  other  two  were  dead  too.  I'm  not 
splendid  and  heroic.  I  thought  I  was  at  first,  but  I 
couldn't  keep  it  up — after  I  heard  about  Mrs.  Foster's 
boy.  If  I  believed  there  was  anything  to  thank,  I 
should  say  ' Thank  God  I  have  no  more  sons.' ' 

That  night  Robin  lay  in  the  dark  thinking  of  the 
dream.  Had  there  been  a  dream — or  had  it  only  been 
like  the  other  things  one  dreamed  about?  Sometimes 
an  eerie  fearfulness  beset  her  vaguely.  If  there  were 
letters  each  day !  But  letters  belonged  to  a  time  when 
rivers  of  blood  did  not  run  through  the  world.  She  sat 
up  in  bed  and  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees  gaz 
ing  into  the  blackness  which  seemed  to  enclose  and  shut 
her  in.  It  had  been  true !  She  could  see  the  wood  and 
the  foxglove  spires  piercing  the  ferns.  She  could  hear 
the  ferns  rustle  and  the  little  bird  sounds  and  stirrings. 


102  ROBIN 

And  .)h~!  she.xjcuid :.,heav  Donal  whispering.  "Can  you 
hear  my  heart  beat  ?" 

He  had  said  it  over  and  over  again.  His  heart 
seemed  to  be  so  big  and  to  beat  so  strongly.  She  had 
thought  it  was  because  he  was  so  big  and  marvellous 
himself.  It  had  been  rapture  to  lay  her  cheek  and  ear 
against  his  breast  and  listen.  Everything  had  been  so 
still.  They  had  been  so  still — so  still  themselves  for 
pure  joy  in  their  close,  close  nearness.  Yes,  the  dream 
had  been  true.  But  here  she  sat  in  the  dark  and  Donal 
— where  was  Donal  ?  Where  millions  of  men  were 
marching,  marching — only  to  kill  each  other — thinking 
of  nothing  but  killing.  Donal  too.  He  must  kill. 
If  he  were  a  brave  soldier  he  must  only  think  of  killing 
and  not  be  afraid  because  at  any  moment  he  might  be 
killed  too.  She  clutched  her  knees  and  shuddered, 
feeling  her  forehead  grow  damp.  Donal  killing  a  man 
— perhaps  a  boy  like  himself — a  boy  who  might  have 
a  dream  of  his  own!  How  would  his  blue  eyes  look 
while  he  was  killing  a  man  ?  Oh !  No  I  No  I  No  I  Not 
Donal! 

With  her  forehead  still  damp  and  her  hands  damp 
also  she  found  herself  getting  out  of  bed  and  walking  up 
and  down  in  the  dark.  She  was  wringing  her  hands 
and  sobbing.  She  must  not  think  of  things  like  these. 
She  must  shut  them  out  of  her  mind  and  think  only  of 
the  dream.  It  had  been  true — it  had !  And  then  the 
strange  thought  came  to  her  that  out  of  all  the  world  only 
he  and  she  had  known  of  their  dreaming.  And  if  he 
never  came  back — !  (Oh!  please,  God,  let  him  come 
back ! )  no  one  need  ever  know.  It  was  their  own,  own 
dream  and  how  could  she  bear  to  speak  of  it  to  any  one 
and  why  should  she  ?  He  had  said  he  wanted  to  have 
this  one  thing  of  his  very  own  before  his  life  ended — 


KOBIN 


103 


if  it  was  going  to  end.  If  it  ended  it  would  be  his 
sacred  secret  and  hers  forever.  She  might  live  to  be 
an  old  woman  with  white  hair  and  no  one  would  ever 
guess  that  since  the  morning  stars  sang  together  they 
two  had  belonged  to  each  other. 

Night  after  night  she  lay  awake  with  thoughts  like 
these.  Through  the  waiting  days  she  began  to  find  an 
anguished  comfort  in  the  feeling  that  she  was  keeping 
their  secret  for  him  and  that  no  one  need  ever  know. 
More  than  once  she  went  on  quietly  with  her  writing 
when  people  stood  near  her  and  spoke  of  him  and  his 
regiment,  which  every  one  was  interested  in  because  he 
was  so  handsome  and  so  young  and  new  to  the  leading 
!of  men.  There  were  rumours  that  he  must  have  been 
plunged  into  fierce  fighting  though  definite  news  did 
[not  come  through  without  delay. 

"Boys  like  that,"  she  heard.  "They  ought  to  be 
kept  at  home.  All  the  greatest  names  will  be  extinct. 
I  And  they  are  the  splendid,  silly  ones  who  expose  them- 
| selves  most.  Young  Lord  Elphinstowe  a  week  ago — 
!the  last  of  his  line !  Scarcely  a  fragment  of  him  to  put 
I  together.7'  There  were  women  who  had  a  hysterical 
desire  to  talk  about  such  things  and  make  gruesome 
pictures  even  of  slightly  founded  stories.  But  when 
she  heard  them  she  did  not  even  lift  her  eyes  from  her 
[work. 

One  marked  feature  of  their  meetings — though  they 
Ithemselves  had  not  marked  it — had  been  that  they  had 
never  talked  of  the  future.  It  had  been  as  though 
[there  were  no  future.  To  live  perfectly  through  the 
Few  hours — even  for  the  one  hour  or  half  hour  they 
[could  snatch — was  all  that  they  could  plan  and  hope 
for.  Could  they  meet  to-morrow  in  this  place  or  that  ? 
When  they  met  were  they  quite  safe  and  blissfully 


104  ROBIN 

alone  ?  The  spectre  had  always  been  waiting  and  they 
had  always  been  trying  to  forget  it.  Each  meeting 
had  seemed  so  brief  and  crowded  and  breathlessly  sweet. 

Only  a  boy  and  a  girl  could  have  so  lost  sight 
of  all  but  their  hour  and  perhaps  also  only  this  boy 
and  girl,  because  their  hour  had  struck  at  a  time  when 
all  futures  seemed  to  hold  only  chances  that  at  any 
moment  might  come  to  an  end. 

"Do  you  hear  my  heart  beat  ?  There  is  no  time — no 
time !"  these  two  things  had  been  the  beginning,  the 
middle  and  the  end. 

Sometimes  Robin  went  and  sat  in  the  Gardens  and 
one  day  in  coming  out  she  met  her  mother  whom  she 
had  not  seen  for  months.  Feather  had  been  exultingly 
gay  and  fashionably  patriotic  and  she  was  walking 
round  the  corner  to  a  meeting  to  be  held  at  her  club. 
The  khaki  colouring  of  her  coat  and  brief  skirt  and 
cap  added  to  their  military  air  with  pipings  and  cords 
and  a  small  upright  feather  of  scarlet.  She  wore 
a  badge  and  a  jewelled  pin  or  so.  She  was  about  to 
pass  Robin  unrecognised  but  took  a  second  glance 
at  her  and  stopped. 

"I  didn't  know  you,"  she  exclaimed.  "What  is  the 
matter?" 

"Nothing — thank  you,"  Robin  answered  pausing. 

"Something  is!  You  are  losing  your  looks.  Is 
your  mistress  working  you  to  death  ?" 

"The  Duchess  is  very  kind  indeed.  She  is  most 
careful  that  I  don't  do  too  much.  I  like  my  work  more 
every  day." 

Feather  took  her  in  with  a  sharp  scrutinising.  She 
seemed  to  look  her  over  from  her  hat  to  her  shoes  before 
she  broke  into  her  queer  little  critical  laugh. 

"Well,  I  can't  congratulate  her  on  the  result.     Yon 


ROBIN  105 

are  thin.  YouVe  lost  your  colour  and  your  mouth  is 
beginning  to  drag  at  the  corners."  And  she  nodded  and 
marched  away,  the  high  heels  of  her  beautiful  small 
brown  boots  striking  the  pavement  with  a  military 
click. 

As  she  had  dressed  in  the  morning  Robin  had  won 
dered  if  she  was  mistaken  in  thinking  that  the  awful 
nights  had  made  her  look  different. 

If  there  had  been  letters  to  read — even  a  few  lines 
such  as  are  all  a  soldier  may  write — to  read  over  and 
over  again,  to  hide  in  her  breast  all  day,  to  kiss  and 
cry  over  and  lay  her  cheek  upon  at  night.  Such  a  small 
letter  would  have  been  such  a  huge  comfort  and 
would  have  made  the  dream  seem  less  far  away.  But 
everybody  waited  for  letters — and  waited  and  waited. 
And  sometimes  they  went  astray  or  were  lost  forever 
and  people  were  left  waiting. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BUT  there  were  no  letters.  And  she  was  obliged 
to  sit  at  her  desk  in  the  corner  and  listen  to  what 
people  said  about  what  was  happening,  and  now 
and  then  to  Lord  Coombe  speaking  in  low  tones  to  the 
Duchess  of  his  anxiety  and  uncertainty  about  Donal. 
Anxiety  was  increasing  on  every  side  and  such  of  the 
unthinking  multitude  as  had  at  last  ceased  to  believe 
that  one  magnificent  English  blow  would  rid  the  earth 
of  Germany,  had  begun  to  lean  towards  belief  in  a 
vision  of  German  millions  adding  themselves  each 
day  to  other  millions  advancing  upon  France,  Belgium, 
England  itself,  a  grey  encroaching  mass  rolling  for 
ward  and  ever  forward,  overwhelming  even  neutral  coun 
tries  until  not  only  Europe  but  the  whole  world  was 
covered,  and  the  mailed  fist  beat  its  fragments  into 
such  dust  as  it  chose.  Even  those  who  had  not  lost 
their  heads  and  who  knew  more  than  the  general  public, 
wore  grave  faces  because  they  felt  they  knew  too  little 
and  could  not  know  more.  Coombe's  face  wa-s  hard 
and  grey  many  days. 

"It  seems  as  if  one  lost  them  in  the  flood  sometimes," 
Robin  heard  him  say  to  the  Duchess.  "I  saw  his  mother 
yesterday  and  could  give  her  no  definite  news.  She 
believes  that  he  is  where  the  worst  fighting  is  going  on. 
I  could  not  tell  her  he  was  not." 

As,  when  they  had  been  together,  the  two  had  not 
thought  of  any  future,  so,  now  Robin  was  alone,  she 
could  not  think  of  any  to-morrow — perhaps  she  would 

106 


KOBIN  107 

not.  She  lived  only  in  the  day  which  was  passing. 
She  rose,  dressed  and  presented  herself  to  the  Duchess 
for  orders ;  she  did  the  work  given  her  to  do,  she  saw  the 
day  gradually  die  and  the  lights  lighted ;  she  worked  as 
long  as  she  was  allowed  to  do  so — and  then  the  day 
was  over  and  she  climbed  the  staircase  to  her  room. 

Sometimes  she  sat  and  wrote  letters  to  Donal — long 
yearning  letters,  but  when  they  were  written  she  tore 
them  into  pieces  or  burned  them.  If  they  were  to 
keep  their  secret  she  could  not  send  such  letters  be 
cause  there  were  so  many  chances  that  they  would  be 
lost.  Still  there  was  a  hopeless  comfort  in  writing 
them,  in  pouring  out  what  she  would  not  have  written 
even  if  she  had  been  sure  that  it  would  reach  him 
safely.  No  girl  who  loved  a  man  who  was  at  the 
Front  would  let  him  know  that  it  seemed  as  if  her  heart 
were  slowly  breaking.  She  must  be  brave — brave !  But 
she  was  not  brave,  that  she  knew.  The  news  from 
the  Front  was  worse  every  day ;  there  were  more  women 
with  awful  faces;  some  workers  had  dropped  out  and 
came  no  more.  One  of  them  who  had  lost  three  sons 
in  one  battle  had  died  a  few  days  after  the  news  ar 
rived  because  the  shock  had  been  too  great  for  her 
strength  to  endure.  There  were  new  phases  of  an 
guish  on  all  sides.  She  did  all  she  was  called  on  to  do 
with  a  secret  passion  of  eagerness ;  each  smallest  detail 
was  the  sacred  thing.  She  begged  the  Duchess  to  allow 
her  to  visit  and  help  the  mothers  of  sons  who  were 
fighting — or  wounded  or  missing.  That  made  her 
feel  nearer  to  things  she  wanted  to  feel  near  to.  When 
they  cried  or  told  her  stories,  she  could  understand. 
When  she  worked  she  might  be  doing  things  which 
might  somehow  reach  Donal  or  boys  like  Donal. 

Howsoever  long  her  life  was  she  knew  one  thing 


108  ROBUST 

would  never  be  blotted  out  by  time — the  day  she 
went  down  to  Mersham  Wood  to  see  Mrs.  Bennett,  whose 
three  grandsons  had  been  killed  within  a  few  days  of 
each  other.  She  had  received  the  news  in  one  telegram. 
There  was  no  fairy  wood  any  longer,  there  were  only 
bare  branched  trees  standing  holding  out  naked  arms 
to  the  greyness  of  the  world.  They  looked  as  if  they 
were  protesting  against  something.  The  grass  and 
ferns  were  brown  and  sodden  with  late  rains  and  there 
were  no  hollyhocks  and  snapdragons  in  the  cottage 
garden — only  on  either  side  of  the  brick  path  dead 
brown  stalks,  some  of  them  broken  by  the  wind.  Things 
had  not  been  neatly  cut  down  and  burned  and  swept 
away.  The  grandsons  had  made  the  garden  autumn- 
tidy  every  year  before  this  one. 

The  old  fairy  woman  sat  on  a  clean  print-covered 
arm  chair  by  a  very  small  fire.  She  had  a  black  print 
dress  on  and  a  black  shawl  and  a  black  ribbon  round 
her  cap.  Her  Bible  lay  on  a  little  table  near  her  but 
it  was  closed. 

"Don't  get  up,  please,  Mrs.  Bennett,"  Eobin  said 
when  she  lifted  the  latch  and  entered. 

The  old  fairy  woman  looked  at  her  in  a  dazed  way. 

"Fm  so  eye-dimmed  with  crying  that  I  can  scarcely 
see,"  she  said. 

Robin  came  to  her  and  knelt  down  on  the  hearth. 

"I'm  your  lodger,"  she  faltered,  "who — who  used 
to  love  the  fairy  wood  so." 

She  had  not  known  what  she  would  say  when  she 
spoke  first  but  she  had  certainly  not  thought  of  saying 
anything  like  this.  And  she  certainly  had  not  known 
that  she  would  suddenly  find  herself  overwhelmed  by  a 
rising  tidal  wave  of  unbearable  woe  and  drop  her  face 


ROBIN  109 

on  to  the  old  woman's  lap  with  wild  sobbing.  She  had 
not  come  down  from  London  to  do  this — but  away  from 
the  world — in  the  clean,  still  little  cottage  room  which 
seemed  to  hold  only  grief  and  silence  and  death  the 
wave  rose  and  broke  and  swept  her  with  it. 

Mrs.  Bennett  only  gave  herself  up  to  the  small 
clutching  hands  and  sat  and  shivered. 

"No  one — will  come  in — will  they?"  Robin  was 
gasping.  "There  is  no  one  to  hear,  is  there  ?" 

"No  one  on  earth,"  said  the  old  fairy  woman.  "Quiet 
and  loneliness  are  left  if  there's  naught  else." 

What  she  thought  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  The 
blow  which  had  come  to  her  at  the  end  of  a  long  life  had, 
as  it  were,  felled  her  as  a  tree  might  have  been  felled  in 
Mersham  Wood.  As  the  tree  might  have  lain  for  a 
short  time  with  its  leaves  still  seeming  alive  on  its 
branches  so  she  seemed  living.  But  she  had  been 
severed  from  her  root.  She  listened  to  the  girl's  sob 
bing  and  stroked  her  hair. 

"Don't  be  afraid.  There's  no  one  left  to  hear  but 
the  walls  and  the  bare  trees  in  the  wood/'  she  said. 

Robin  sobbed  on. 

"You've  a  kind  heart,  but  you're  not  crying  for  me," 
she  said  next.  "You've  a  black  trouble  of  your  own. 
There's  few  that  hasn't  these  days.  And  it's  worse 
for  the  young  that's  got  to  live  through  it  and  after  it. 
When  Mary  Ann  comes  to  see  after  me  to-morrow 
morning  I  may  be  lying  dead,  thank  God.  But  you're 
a  child."  The  small  clutching  hands  clutched  more 
piteously  because  it  was  so  true — so  true.  Whatso 
ever  befell  there  were  all  the  long,  long  years  to  come — 
with  only  the  secret  left  and  the  awful  fear  that  some 
time  she  might  begin  to  be  afraid  that  it  was  not  a 


110  ROBIN 

real  thing — since  no  one  had  ever  known  or  ever  would 
know  and  since  she  could  never  speak  of  it  or  hear 
it  spoken  of. 

"I'm  so  afraid,"  she  shuddered  at  last  in  a  small 
low  voice.  "Pm  so  lonely!"  The  old  fairy  woman's 
stroking  hand  stopped  short. 

"Is  there — anything — you'd  like  to  tell  me — any 
thing  in  the  world  ?"  she  asked  tremulously.  "There's 
nothing  I'd  mind." 

The  pretty  head  on  her  lap  shook  itself  to  and  fro. 

"No!  No!  No!  No !"  the  small  choked  voice  gave 
out.  "Nothing — nothing!  Nothing.  That's  why  it's 
so  lonely." 

As  she  had  waited  alone  through  the  night  in  her 
cradle,  as  she  had  watched  the  sparrows  on  the  roofs 
above  her  in  the  nursery,  as  she  had  played  alone  until 
Donal  came,  so  it  was  her  fate  to  be  alone  now. 

"But  you  came  away  from  London  because  there 
were  too  many  people  there  and  you  wanted  to  be  in  a 
place  where  there  was  nothing  but  an  empty  cottage 
and  an  old  woman.  Some  would  call  it  lonelier  here." 

"The  wood  is  here — the  fairy  wood!"  she  cried  and 
her  sobbing  broke  forth  tenfold  more  bitterly. 

Mrs.  Bennett  had  seen  in  her  day  much  of  the 
troubles  of  others  and  many  of  the  things  she  had 
seen  had  been  the  troubles  of  women  who  were  young. 
Sometimes  it  had  been  possible  to  help  them,  some 
times  it  had  not,  but  in  any  case  she  had  always  known 
that  help  could  be  given  only  if  one  asked  careful 
questions.  The  old  established  rules  with  regard  to 
one's  behaviour  in  connection  with  duchesses  and  their 
belongings  had  strangely  faded  away  since  the  severing 
of  her  root  as  all  things  on  earth  had  faded  and  lost 


ROBIN  111 

consequence.     She  remembered  no  rules  as  she  bent  her 
head  over  the  girl  and  almost  whispered  to  her. 

"I  won't  ask  no  questions  after  this  one,  Miss  dear," 
she  said  quaking.  "But  was  there  .ever — a  young 
gentleman — in  the  wood  ?" 

"No !  No !  No !  No !"  four  times  again  Robin  cried 
it.  "Never!  Never!"  And  she  lifted  her  face  and 
let  her  see  it  white  and  streaming  and  with  eyes  which 
desperately  defied  and  as  they  defied  implored  for  love 
and  aid  and  mercy. 

The  old  fairy  woman's  nutcracker  mouth  trembled. 
It  mumbled  pathetically  before  she  was  able  to  control 
it.  She  knew  she  had  heard  this  kind  of  thing  before 
though  in  cases  with  which  great  ladies  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do.  And  at  the  same  time  there  was  some 
thing  in  this  case  that  was  somehow  different. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  or  do,"  she  faltered  help 
lessly.  "With  the  world  like  this — we've  got  to  try 
to  comfort  each  other — and  we  don't  know  how." 

"Let  me  come  into  your  arms,"  said  Robin  like  a 
child.  "Hold  me  and  let  me  hold  you."  She  crept 
near  and  folding  soft  arms  about  the  old  figure  laid 
her  cheek  against  the  black  shawl.  "Let  us  cry. 
There's  nothing  for  either  of  us  to  do  but  cry  until  our 
hearts  break  in  two.  We  are  all  alone  and  no  one  can 
hear  us." 

"There's  naught  but  the  wood  outside,"  moaned  the 
old  fairy  woman. 

The  voice  against  the  shawl  was  a  moan  also. 

"Perhaps  the  wood  hears  us — perhaps  it  hears.  Oh ! 
me!  Oh!  me!" 


112.  ROBIN 

When  she  reached  London  she  saw  that  there  were 
excited  groups  of  people  talking  together  in  the  streets. 
Among  them  were  women  who  were  crying,  or  pro 
testing  angrily  or  comforting  others.  Bnt  she  had 
seen  the  same  thing  before  and  would  not  let  herself 
look  at  people  or  hear  anything  she  could  shut  her 
ears  against.  Some  new  thing  had  happened,  perhaps 
the  Germans  had  taken  some  important  town  and 
wreaked  their  vengeance  on  the  inhabitants,  perhaps 
some  new  alarming  move  had  been  made  and  disaster 
stared  the  Allies  in  the  face.  She  staggered  through 
the  crowds  in  the  station  and  did  not  really  know  how 
she  reached  Eaton  Square. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  was  sitting  at  her  desk  quiet 
and  neat  in  her  house  dress.  She  had  told  the  Duchess 
all  she  could  tell  her  of  her  visit  to  old  Mrs.  Bennett. 

"We  both  cried  a  good  deal/'  she  explained  when 
she  saw  her  employer  look  at  her  stained  eyes.  "She 
keeps  remembering  what  they  were  like  when  they 
were  babies — how  rosy  and  fat  they  were  and  how  they 
learned  to  walk  and  tumbled  about  on  her  little  kitchen 
floor.  And  then  how  big  they  grew  and  how  fine  they 
looked  in  their  khaki.  She  says  the  worst  thing  is 
wondering  how  they  look  now.  I  told  her  she  mustn't 
wonder.  She  mustn't  think  at  all.  She  is  quite  well 
taken  care  of.  A  girl  called  Mary  Ann  comes  in  three 
times  a  day  to  wait  on  her — and  her  daughter  comes 
when  she  can  but  her  trouble  has  made  her  almost 
wander  in  her  mind.  It's  because  they  are  all  gone. 
When  she  comes  in  she  forgets  everything  and  sits  and 
says  over  and  over  again,  'If  it  had  only  been  Tom 
* — or  only  Tom  and  Will — or  if  it  had  been  Jem — or 
only  Jem  and  Tom — but  it's  Will — and  Jem — and 
Tom/ — over  and  over  again.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  I 


ROBIN  113 

know  how  to  comfort  people.     But  she  was  glad  I  came." 

When  Lord  Coombe  came  in  to  make  his  daily  visit 
he  looked  rigid  indeed — as  if  he  were  stiff  and  cold 
though  it  was  not  a  cold  night. 

He  sat  down  by  the  Duchess  and  took  a  telegram  from 
his  pocket.  Glancing  up  at  him,  Robin  was  struck  by 
a  whiteness  about  his  mouth.  He  did  not  speak  at 
once.  It  was  as  though  even  his  lips  were  stiff. 

"It  has  come,"  he  said  at  last.  "Killed.  A  shell." 
The  Duchess  repeated  his  words  after  him.  Her  lips 
seemed  stiff  also. 

"Killed.     A  shell." 

He  handed  the  telegram  to  her.  It  was  the  customary 
officially  sympathetic  announcement.  She  read  it  more 
than  once.  Her  hands  began  to  tremble.  But  Coombe 
sat  with  face  hidden.  He  was  bowed  like  an  old  man. 

"A  shell,"  he  said  slowly  as  if  thinking  the  awful 
thing  out  "That  I  heard  unofficially."  Then  he 
added  a  strange  thing,  dragging  the  words  out.  "How 
could  that — be  blown  to  atoms?" 

The  Duchess  scarcely  breathed  her  answer  which 
was  as  strange  as  his  questioning. 

"Oh!     HowccroWit!" 

She  put  out  her  shaking  hand  and  touched  his  sleeve, 
watching  his  face  as  if  something  in  it  awed  her. 

"You  loved  him?"  She  whispered  it  But  Robin 
heard. 

"I  did  not  know  I  had  loved  anything — but  I  sup 
pose  that  has  been  it.  His  physical  perfection  at 
tracted  me  at  first — his  extraordinary  contrast  to  Henry. 
It  was  mere  pride  in  him  as  an  heir  and  successor. 
Afterwards  it  was  a  beautiful  look  his  young  blue  eyes 
had.  Beautiful  seems  an  unmasculine  word  for  such 
a  masculine  lad,  but  no  other  word  expresses  it  It 


114  KOBIN 

was  a  sort  of  valiant  brightness  and  joy  in  living  and 
being  friends  with  the  world.  I  saw  it  every  time  he 
came  to  talk  to  me.  I  wished  he  were  my  son.  I 
even  tried  to  think  of  him  as  my  son."  He  uttered 
a  curious  low  sound  like  a  sudden  groan,  "My  son 
has  been  killed.77 

*         *         •#         *         * 

When  he  was  about  to  leave  the  house  and  stood  in 
the  candle-lighted  hall  he  was  thinking  of  many  dark 
things  which  passed  unformedly  through  his  mind 
and  made  him  move  slowly.  He  was  slow  in  his  move 
ments  as  the  elderly  maid  servant  assisted  him  to 
put  on  his  overcoat,  and  he  was  as  slowly  drawing  on 
his  gloves  when  his  eyes — slow  also — travelled  up  the 
staircase  and  stopped  at  the  first  landing,  where  he 
seemed  to  see  an  indefinite  heap  of  something  lying. 

"Am  I  mistaken  or  is — something — lying  on  the 
landing?"  he  said  to  the  woman. 

The  fact  that  he  was  impelled  to  make  the  inquiry 
seemed  to  him  part  of  his  abnormal  state  of  mind. 
What  affair  of  his  after  all  were  curiously  dropped 
bundles  upon  his  hostess'  staircase?  But — 

"Please  go  and  look  at  it,"  he  added,  and  the  woman 
gave  him  a  troubled  look  and  went  up  the  stairs. 

He  himself  was  only  a  moment  behind  her.  He 
actually  found  himself  following  her  as  if  he  were  guess 
ing  something.  When  the  maid  cried  out,  he  vaguely 
knew  what  he  had  been  guessing. 

"Oh!"  the  woman  gasped,  bending  down.  "It's 
poor  little  Miss  Lawless !  Oh,  my  lord,"  wildly  after 
a  nearer  glance,  "She  looks  as  if  she  was  dead !" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

NOW  no  one  will  ever  know." 
Robin     waking     from     long     unconsciousness 
found  her  mind  saying  this  before  conscious 
ness  which  was  clear  had  actually  brought  her  back  to 
the  world. 

"Now  no  one  will  ever  know — ever." 

She  seemed  to  have  been  away  somewhere  in  the 
dark  for  a  very  long  time.  She  was  too  tired  to  try 
to  remember  what  had  happened  before  she  began 
to  climb  the  staircase,  which  grew  steeper  and  longer 
as  she  dragged  herself  from  step  to  step.  But  in  the 
back  of  her  mind  there  was  one  particular  fact  she  knew 
without  trying  to  remember  how  she  learned  it.  A 
shell  had  fallen  somewhere  and  when  it  had  burst 
Donal  was  "blown  to  atoms."  How  big  were  atoms — 
how  small  were  they  ?  Several  times  when  she  reached 
this  point  she  descended  into  the  abyss  of  blackness  and 
fainted  again,  though  people  were  doing  things  to  her 
and  trying  to  keep  her  awake  in  ways  which  troubled 
her  greatly.  Why  should  they  disturb  her  so  when  sink 
ing  into  blackness  was  better? 

"Now  no  one  will  ever  know." 

She  was  lying  in  her  bed  in  her  own  room.  Some  one 
had  undressed  her.  It  was  a  nice  room  and  very  quiet 
and  there  was  only  a  dim  light  burning.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  she  came  back,  after  one  of  the  descents  into 
the  black  abyss,  and  became  slowly  aware  that  Some 
thing  was  near  her  bed.  She  did  not  actually  see  it 

115 


116  .     EOBIN 

because  at  first  she  could  not  have  lifted  or  turned  her 
eyes.  She  could  only  lie  still.  But  she  knew  that  it 
was  near  her  and  she  wished  it  were  not.  At  last — 
by  degrees  it  ceased  to  be  a  mere  thing  and  evolved 
into  a  person.  It  was  a  man  who  was  holding  her 
wrist  and  watching  her  quietly  and  steadily — as  if 
he  had  been  doing  it  for  some  time.  No  one  else  was 
in  the  room.  The  people  who  had  been  disturbing  her 
by  doing  things  had  gone  away. 

"Now,"  she  whispered  dragging  out  word  after  word, 
"no  one  will — ever — ever  know."  But  she  was  not  con 
scious  she  had  said  it  even  in  a  whisper  which  could  be 
heard.  She  thought  the  thing  had  only  passed  again 
through  her  mind. 

"Donal!  Blown — to — atoms,"  she  said  in  the  same 
way.  "How  small  is — an  atom?"  She  was  sinking 
into  the  blackness  again  when  the  man  dropped  her 
wrist  quickly  and  did  something  to  her  which  brought 
her  back. 

"Don't!"   she  moaned.     "Please— don't." 

But  he  would  not  let  her  go. 

*         -x-         *         *         * 

Perhaps  days  and  nights  passed — or  perhaps  only  one 
day  and  night  before  she  found  herself  still  lying  in  her 
bed  but  feeling  somehow  more  awake  when  she  opened 
her  eyes  and  found  the  same  man  sitting  close  to  her 
holding  her  wrist  again. 

"I  am  Dr.  Redcliff,"  he  said  in  a  quiet  voice.  "You 
are  much  better.  I  want  to  ask  you  some  questions.  I 
will  not  tire  you." 

He  began  to  ask  her  questions  very  gently  as  if  he 
did  not  wish  to  alarm  or  disturb  her.  She  had  been 
found  in  a  dead  faint  lying  on  the  landing.  She  had 


KOBIN  117. 

remained  unconscious  for  an  abnormally  long  time. 
When  she  had  been  brought  out  of  one  faint  she  had 
fallen  into  another  and  this  had  happened  again  and 
again.  The  indication  was  that  she  had  been  struck 
down  by  some  shock.  In  examining  her  he  had  found 
that  she  was  underweight.  He  wished  to  discover  if 
she  had  been  secretly  working  too  late  at  night  in  her 
deep  interest  in  what  she  was  doing.  What  exactly 
had  her  diet  been?  Had  she  taken  enough  exercise 
in  the  open  air?  How  had  she  slept?  The  Duchess 
was  seriously  anxious. 

They  were  the  questions  doctors  always  asked  people 
except  that  he  seemed  more  desirous  of  being  sure  of 
the  amount  of  exercise  she  had  taken  than  about  any 
thing  else.  He  was  specially  interested  in  the  times 
when  she  had  been  in  the  country.  She  was  obliged 
to  tell  him  she  had  always  been  alone.  He  thought  it 
would  have  been  better  if  she  had  had  some  companion. 
Once  when  he  was  asking  her  about  her  visits  to  Mrs. 
Bennett's  cottage  the  blackness  almost  engulfed  her 
again.  But  he  was  watching  her  very  closely  and  per 
haps  seeing  her  turn  white — gave  her  some  stimulant  in 
time.  He  had  a  clever  face  which  was  not  unkind, 
but  she  wished  that  it  had  not  had  such  a  keenly  watch 
ful  look.  More  than  once  the  watchfulness  tired  her 
and  she  closed  her  eyes  because  she  did  not  want  him 
to  look  into  them — as  if  he  were  asking  questions  which 
were  not  altogether  doctors'  questions. 

When  he  left  her  and  went  downstairs  to  talk  to  the 
Duchess  he  asked  a  good  many  quiet  questions  again. 
He  was  a  man  whose  intense  interest  in  his  profession 
did  not  confine  itself  wholly  to  its  scientific  aspect. 
An  extraordinarily  beautiful  child  swooning  into  death 
was  not  a  mere  pathological  incident  to  him.  And  he 


118  ROBIN 

knew  many  strange  things  brought  about  by  the  ab 
normal  conditions  of  war.  He  himself  was  conscious 
of  being  overstrung  with  the  rest  of  a  tormented  world. 

He  knew  of  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  and  he  had  heard 
more  stories  of  her  household,  her  loveliness  and  Lord 
Coombe  than  he  had  time  to  remember.  He  had,  of 
course,  heard  the  unsavoury  rumours  of  the  child  who 
was  being  brought  up  for  some  nefarious  object.  As 
he  knew  Lord  Coombe  rather  well  he  did  not  believe 
stories  about  him  which  went  beyond  a  certain  limit. 
Not  until  he  had  talked  to  the  Duchess  for  some  time 
did  he  discover  that  the  hard-smitten  child  lying  half- 
lifeless  in  her  bed  was  the  very  young  heroine  of  the 
quite  favourite  scandal.  The  knowledge  gave  him  furi 
ously  to  think.  It  was  Coombe  who  had  interested  the 
Duchess  in  her.  The  Duchess  had  no  doubt  taken 
her  under  her  protection  for  generously  benign  reasons. 
He  pursued  his  questioning  delicately. 

"Has  she  had  any  young  friends?  She  seems  to 
have  taken  her  walks  alone  and  even  to  have  gone  into 
the  country  by  herself." 

"The  life  of  the  young  people  in  its  ordinary  sense 
of  companionship  and  amusement  has  been  stopped  by 
the  War.  There  may  be  some  who  go  on  in  the  old 
way  but  she  has  not  been  one  of  them,"  the  Duchess 
said. 

"Visits  to  old  women  in  remote  country  places  are  not 
stimulating  enough.  Has  she  had  no  companions?" 

"I  tried — "  said  the  Duchess  wearily.  She  was 
rather  pale  herself.  "The  news  of  the  Sarajevo  tragedy 
arrived  on  the  day  I  gave  a  small  dance  for  her — to 
bring  some  young  people  together."  Her  waxen  pallor 
became  even  more  manifest.  "How  they  danced !" 


119 

she  said  woefully.  "What  living  things  they  were! 
Oh!"  the  exclamation  broke  forth  at  a  suddenly  over 
whelming  memory.  "The  beautiful  boy — the  splendid 
lad  who  was  blown  to  atoms — the  news  came  only 
yesterday — was  there  dancing  with  the  rest !" 

Dr.  Redcliff  leaned  forward  slightly. 

"To  hear  that  any  boy  has  been  blown  to  atoms  is  a 
hideous  thing,"  he  said.  "Who  brought  the  news? 
Was  Miss  Lawless  in  the  room  when  it  was  brought  ?" 

"I  think  so  though  I  am  not  sure.  She  comes  in 
and  goes  out  very  quietly.  I  am  afraid  I  forgot  every 
thing  else.  The  shock  was  a  great  one.  My  old  friend 
Lord  Coombe  brought  the  news.  The  boy  would  have 
succeeded  him.  We  hear  again  and  again  of  great 
families  becoming  extinct.  The  house  of  Coombe  has 
not  been  prolific.  The  War  has  taken  its  toll.  Donal 
Muir  was  the  last  of  them.  One  has  felt  as  though 
it  was  of  great  importance  that — that  a  thing  like  that 
should  be  carried  on."  She  began  to  speak  in  a  half- 
numbed  introspective  way.  "What  does  it  matter 
really  ?  Only  one  boy  of  thousands — perhaps  hundreds 
of  thousands  before  it  is  over?  But — but  it's  the 
youngness — the  power — 4he  potential  meaning — wasted 
— torn — scattered  in  fragments."  She  stopped  and  sat 
quite  still,  gazing  before  her  as  though  into  space. 

"She  is  very  young.  She  has  been  absorbed  in  war 
work  and  living  in  a  highly  charged  atmosphere  for 
some  time."  Dr.  Eedcliff  said  presently,  "If  she  knew 
the  poor  lad — " 

"She  did  not  really  know  him  well,  though  they  had 
met  as  children.  They  danced  together  that  night 
and  sat  and  talked  in  the  conservatory.  But  she  never 
saw  him  again,"  the  Duchess  explained. 


120  ROBUST 

"It  might  have  been  too  much,  even  if  she  did  not 
know  him  well.  We  must  keep  her  quiet,"  said  Dr. 
Eeddiff. 

Very  shortly  afterwards  he  rose  and  went  away. 

An  hour  later  he  was  sitting  in  a  room  at  Coombe 
House  alone  with  Lord  Coombe.  It  was  the  room  in 
which  Mademoiselle  Valle  had  found  his  lordship  on 
the  night  of  Robin's  disappearance.  No  one  knew  now 
where  Mademoiselle  was  or  if  she  were  still  alive. 
She  had  been  living  with  her  old  parents  in  a  serene 
Belgian  village  which  had  been  destroyed  by  the  Ger 
mans.  Black  tales  had  been  told  of  which  Robin  had 
been  allowed  to  hear  nothing.  She  had  been  protected 
in  many  ways. 

Though  they  had  not  been  intimates  the  two  men 
knew  each  other  well.  To  each  individually  the  type 
of  the  other  was  one  he  could  understand.  It  was 
plain  to  Lord  Coombe  that  Redcliff  found  his  case 
of  rather  special  interest,  which  he  felt  was  scarcely 
to  be  wondered  at.  As  he  himself  had  seen  the  too 
slender  prostrate  figure  and  the  bloodless  small  face 
with  its  curtain  of  lashes  lying  too  heavily  close  to  the 
cold  cheek,  he  had  realised  that  their  helpless  beauty 
alone  was  enough  to  arrest  more  than  ordinary  at 
tention.  She  had,  as  the  woman  had  cried  out,  looked 
as  if  she  were  dead,  and  dead  loveliness  is  a  reaching 
power. 

Dr.  Redeliff  spoke  of  her  thoughtfully  and  with  a 
certain  gentleness.  He  at  first  included  her  with 
many  other  girls,  the  changes  in  whose  methods  of  life 
he  had  been  observing. 

"The  closed  gates  in  their  paths  are  suddenly  thrown 
open  for  them  because  no  one  has  to  lock  and  unlock 
them,"  he  said.  "It  produces  curious  effects.  The 


ROBDJ  121 

light-minded  ones  take  advantage  of  the  fact  and  find 
dangerous  amusement  in  it  sometimes.  The  serious 
ones  go  about  the  work  they  have  taken  in  hand.  Miss 
Lawless  is,  I  gather,  one  of  the  thinking  and  feeling 
ones  and  has  gone  about  a  great  deal." 

"Yes.  The  Duchess  has  tried  to  save  her  from  her 
own  ardour,  but  perhaps  she  has  worked  too  steadily." 

"Has  the  Duchess  always  known  where  she  has  gone 
and  what  people  she  has  seen?" 

"That  would  have  been  impossible.  She  wished  her 
to  feel  free  and  if  we  had  not  wished  it,  one  can  see 
that  it  would  not  have  been  possible  to  stand  guard  over 
her.  Neither  was  it  necessary." 

But  he  began  to  listen  with  special  attention.  There 
awakened  in  his  mind  the  consciousness  that  he  was 
being  asked  questions  which  suggested  an  object.  The 
next  one  added  to  his  awakening  sense  of  the  thing. 

"Her  exercise  and  holidays  were  always  taken  alone  t" 
Redcliff  said. 

"The  Duchess  believed  so." 

"She  has  evidently  been  living  under  a  poignant 
strain  and  some  ghastly  shock  has  struck  her  down.  I 
think  she  must  have  been  in  the  room  when  you  brought 
the  news  of  young  Muir's  terrible  death." 

"She  was,"  said  Coombe.  "I  saw  her  and  then  for 
got." 

"I  thought  so,"  Eedcliff  went  on.  "She  cried  out 
several  times,  'Blown  to  atoms — atoms !  Donal !'  She 
was  not  conscious  of  the  cries." 

"Are  you  sure  she  said  'DonaT  ?"  Coombe  asked. 

"Quite  sure.  It  was  that  which  set  me  thinking.  I 
have  thought  a  great  deal.  She  has  touched  me  hor 
ribly.  The  mere  sight  of  her  was  enough.  There  is 
desolation  in  her  childlikeness." 


122  ROBIN 

Lord  Coombe  sat  extremely  still.  The  room  was 
very  silent  till  Redcliff  went  on  in  dropped  voice. 

"There  was  another  thing  she  said.  She  whispered 
it  brokenly  word  by  word.  She  did  not  know  that, 
either.  She  whispered,  *!N"ow — no  one — will  ever — 
know — ever.' ' 

Lord  Coombe  still  sat  silent.  What  he  was  thinking 
could  not  be  read  in  his  face  but  being  a  man  of 
astute  perception  and  used  to  the  study  of  faces  Dr. 
Redcliff  knew  that  suddenly  some  startling  thought  had 
leaped  within  him. 

"You  were  right  to  come  to  me,"  he  said.  "What  is 
it  you — suspect?" 

That  Dr.  Redcliff  was  almost  unbearably  moved  was 
manifest.  He  was  not  a  man  of  surface  emotions  but 
his  face  actually  twitched  and  he  hastily  gulped  some 
thing  down. 

"She  is  a  heartbreakingly  beautiful  thing,"  he  said. 
"She  has  been  left — through  sheer  kindness — in  her 
own  young  hands.  They  were  too  young — and  these 
are  hours  of  cataclysm.  She  knows  nothing.  She 
does  not  know  that — she  will  probably  have  a  child." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  swiftness  of  the  process  by  which  the  glowing 
little  Miss  Lawless,  at  whom  people  had  found 
themselves  involuntarily  looking  so  often, 
changed  from  a  rose  of  a  girl  into  something  strangely 
like  a  small  waxen  image  which  walked,  called  forth 
frequent  startled  comment.  She  was  glanced  at  even 
oftener  than  ever. 

"Is  she  going  into  galloping  consumption?  Her 
little  chin  has  grown  quite  pointed  and  her  eyes  are 
actually  frightening,"  was  an  early  observation.  But 
girls  who  are  going  into  galloping  consumption  cough 
and  look  hectic  and  are  weaker  day  by  day  and  she  had 
no  cough,  nor  was  she  hectic  and,  though  it  was  known 
that  Dr.  Redcliff  saw  her  frequently,  she  insisted  that 
she  was  not  ill  and  begged  the  Duchess  to  let  her  go  on 
with  her  work. 

"But  the  done-for  woe  in  her  face  is  inexplicable — in 
a  girl  who  has  had  no  love  affairs  and  has  not  even 
known  any  one  who  could  have  flirted  with  her  and 
ridden  away.  The  little  thing's  done  for.  It  cries  out 
aloud.  I  can't  bear  to  look  at  her,"  one  woman  pro 
tested. 

"I  shall  send  her  away  if  she  does  not  improve,"  the 
Duchess  said.  "She  shall  go  to  some  remote  place  in 
the  Highlands  and  she  shall  not  be  allowed  to  remember 
that  there  is  a  war  in  the  world.  If  I  can  manage  to 
send  her  old  nurse  Dowie  with  her  she  will  stand  guard 

over  her  like  an  old  shepherd." 

123 


124:  ROBIN 

She  also  had  been  struck  by  the  look  which  had  been 
spoken  of  as  "done-for."  Girls  did  not  look  like  that 
for  any  common  reason.  She  asked  herself  questions 
and  with  great  care  sat  on  foot  a  gradual  and  delicate 
cross-examination  of  Robin  herself.  But  she  discovered 
no  reason  common  or  uncommon  for  the  thing  she  rec 
ognised  each  time  she  looked  at  her.  It  was  inevitable 
that  she  should  talk  to  Lord  Coombe  but  she  met  in 
him  a  sort  of  barrier.  She  could  not  avoid  seeing 
that  he  was  preoccupied.  She  remotely  felt  that  he 
was  turning  over  in  his  mind  something  which  pre 
cluded  the  possibility  of  his  giving  attention  to  other 
questions. 

"I  almost  feel  as  if  your  interest  in  her  had  lapsed," 
she  said  at  last. 

"No.  It  has  taken  a — an  entirely  new  form/'  was 
his  answer. 

It  was  when  his  glance  encountered  hers  after  he 
said  this  that  each  regarded  the  other  with  a  slow  grow 
ing  anxiousness.  Something  came  to  life  in  each  pair 
of  eyes  and  it  was  something  disturbed  and  reluctant. 
The  Duchess  spoke  first. 

"She  has  had  no  companions/'  she  said  painfully. 
"The  War  put  an  end  to  what  I  thought  I  might  do  for 
her.  There  has  been  nobody." 

"At  present  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  in  one  sense  we 
know  very  little  of  each  other's  lives,"  he  answered. 
"The  old  leisurely  habit  of  observing  details  no  longer 
exists.  As  RedclifF  said  in  speaking  of  her — and 
girls  generally — all  the  gates  are  thrown  wide  open." 

The  Duchess  was  very  silent  for  a  space  before  she 
made  her  reply. 

"Yes." 


ROBIN  125 

"You  do  not  know  her  mother  ?" 

"No." 

"Two  weeks  ago  she  gave  me  something  to  reflect  on. 
Her  feeling  for  her  daughter  is  that  of  a  pretty  oat- 
like  woman  for  something  enragingly  younger  than  her 
self.  She  always  resented  her.  She  was  infuriated 
by  your  interest  in  her.  She  said  to  me  one  after 
noon,  'I  hope  the  Duchess  is  still  pleased  with  her 
companion.  I  saw  her  to-day  in  Bond  Street  and  she 
looked  like  a  housemaid  I  once  had  to  dismiss  rather 
suddenly.  I  am  glad  she  is  in  her  grace's  house  and 
not  in  mine.'  '' 

After  a  few  seconds — 

"I  am  glad  she  is  in  my  house  and  not  in  hers,"  the 
Duchess  said. 

"After  I  had  spoken  to  her  at  some  length  and  she 
had  quite  lost  her  temper,  she  added  'You  evidently 
don't  know  that  she  has  been  meeting  Donal  Muir. 
He  told  me  so  himself  at  the  Erwyn's.  I  asked  him  if 
he  had  seen  her  since  the  dance  and  he  owned  that 
he  had — and  then  was  cross  at  himself  for  making  the 
slip.  I  did  not  ask  him  how  often  he  had  met  her.  He 
would  not  have  told  me.  But  if  he  met  her  once  he 
met  her  as  often  as  he  chose.'  She  was  not  lying  when 
she  said  it.  I  know  her.  I  have  been  thinking  con 
stantly  ever  since."  There  was  a  brief  silence  between 
them;  then  he  proceeded.  "Robin  worshipped  him 
when  she  was  a  mere  baby.  They  were  very  beautiful 
together  on  the  night  of  the  dance.  She  fainted  on  the 
stairway  after  hearing  of  his  death.  She  had  been 
crawling  up  to  hide  herself  in  her  room,  poor  child  !  It 
is  one  of  the  tragedies.  Perhaps  you  and  I  together — " 

The  Duchess  was  seeing  again  the  two  who  had  come 


126  ROBIN 

forth  shining  from  the  conservatory.  She  continued 
to  see  them  as  Lord  Coombe  went  on  speaking,  telling 
her  what  Dr.  Redcliff  had  told  him. 


On  her  part  Robin  scarcely  understood  anything 
which  was  happening  because  nothing  seemed  to  matter. 
On  the  morning  when  the  Duchess  told  her  that  Dr. 
Redcliff  wished  to  see  her  alone  that  fact  mattered  as 
little  as  the  rest.  She  was  indifferently  conscious  that 
the  Duchess  regarded  her  in  an  anxious  kind  way,  but  if 
she  had  been  unkind  instead  of  kind  that  would  have 
meant  nothing.  There  was  only  room  for  one  thing 
in  the  world.  She  wondered  sometimes  if  she  were 
really  dead — as  Donal  was — and  did  not  know  she  was 
so.  Perhaps  after  people  died  they  walked  about  as  she 
did  and  did  not  understand  that  others  could  not  see 
them  and  they  were  not  alive.  But  if  she  were  dead 
she  would  surely  see  Donal. 

Before  she  went  to  Dr.  Redcliff  the  Duchess  took 
her  hand  and  held  it  closely  in  both  her  own.  She 
looked  at  her  with  a»  curious  sort  of  pitifulness — as  if 
she  were  sorry. 

"My  poor  child,"  she  said.  'Whatsoever  he  tells 
you  don't  be  frightened.  Don't  think  you  are  without 
friends.  I  will  take  care  of  you." 

"Thank  you/7  she  said.  "I  don't  think  anything 
would  frighten  me.  Nothing  seems  frightening — 
now."  After  which  she  went  into  the  room  where  Dr. 
Redcliff  was  waiting,  for  her. 


The  Duchess  sat  alone  and  thought  deeply.  What 
she  thought  of  chiefly  was  the  Head  of  the  House  of 
Coombe.  She  had  always  known  that  more  than  prob- 


ROBIN  127 

ably  his  attitude  towards  a  circumstance  of  this  sort 
would  not  even  remotely  approach  in  likeness  that 
of  other  people.  His  point  of  view  would  detach  it 
self  from  ordinary  theories  of  moralities  and  immorali 
ties.  He  would  see  with  singular  clearness  all  sides 
of  the  incident.  He  would  not  be  indignant,  or  annoyed 
or  embarrassed.  He  had  had  an  interest  in  Robin 
as  a  creature  representing  peculiar  loveliness  and  un 
defended  potentialities.  Sometimes  she  had  felt  that 
this  had  even  verged  on  a  tenderness  of  which  he  was 
himself  remotely,  if  at  all,  conscious.  Concerning  the 
boy  Donal  she  had  realised  that  he  felt  something 
stronger  and  deeper  than  any  words  of  his  own  had  at 
any  time  expressed.  He  had  believed  fine  things  of 
him  and  had  watched  him  silently.  He  had  wished  he 
had  been  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  Perhaps  he  had 
always  felt  a  longing  for  a  son  who  might  have  been  his 
companion  as  well  as  his  successor.  Who  knew  whether 
a  thwarted  paternal  instinct  might  not  now  be  giving 
him  such  thinking  to  do  as  he  might  have  done  if  Donal 
Muir  had  been  the  son  of  his  body — dead  on  the  battle 
field  but  leaving  behind  him  something  to  be  gravely 
considered?  What  would  a  man  think — what  would 
a  man  do  under  such  circumstances  ? 

"One  might  imagine  what  some  men  would  do — but  it 
would  depend  entirely  upon  the  type,"  she  thought. 
"What  he  will  do  will  be  different.  It  might  seem 
cold;  it  might  be  merely  judicial — but  it  might  be 
surprising." 

She  was  quite  haunted  by  the  haggard  look  of  his  face 
as  he  had  exclaimed: 

"I  wish  to  God  I  had  known  him  better !  I  wish  to 
God  I  had  talked  to  him  more !" 

What  he  had  done  this  morning  was  to  go  to  Mersham 


128  ROBUST 

Wood  to  see  Mrs.  Bennett.  There  were  things  it  might 
be  possible  to  learn  by  amiable  and  carefully  con 
sidered  expression  of  interest  in  her  loss  and  loneliness. 
Concerning  such  things  as  she  did  not  already  know 
she  would  learn  nothing  from  his  conversation,  but 
concerning  such  things  as  she  had  become  aware  of  he 
would  learn  everything  without  alarming  her. 

"If  those  unhappy  children  met  at  her  cottage  and 
wandered  about  in  Mersham  Wood  together  the  tragedy 
is  understandable." 

The  Duchess'  thinking  ended  pityingly  because  just 
at  this  time  it  was  that  Robin  opened  the  door  and 
stood  looking  at  her. 

It  seemed  as  though  Dr.  Redcliff  must  have  talked 
to  her  for  a  long  time.  But  she  had  on  her  small  hat 
and  coat  and  what  the  Duchess  seemed  chiefly  to  see  was 
the  wide  darkness  of  her  eyes  set  in  a  face  suddenly 
pinched,  small  and  snow  white.  She  looked  like  a 
starved  baby. 

"Please,"  she  said  with  her  hands  clasped  against 
her  chest,  "please — may  I  go  to  Mersham  Wood  ?" 

"To — Mersham  Wood,"  the  Duchess  felt  aghast — and 
then  suddenly  a  flood  of  thought  rushed  upon  her. 

"It  is  not  very  far,"  the  little  gasping  voice  uttered. 
"I  must  go,  please !  Oh !  I  must !  Just — to  Mer 
sham  Wood!" 

Something  almost  uncontrollable  rose  in  the  Duchess' 
throat. 

"Child,"  she  said.     "Come  here !" 

Robin  went  to  her — oh,  poor  little  soul ! — in  utter 
obedience.  As  she  drew  close  to  her  she  went  down  upon 
her  knees  holding  up  her  hands  like  a  little  nun  at 
prayer. 


ROBIN  129 

"Please  let  me  go,"  she  said  again.  "Only  to  Mer- 
shara  Wood." 

"Stay  here,  my  poor  child  and  talk  to  me/'  the 
Duchess  said.  "The  time  has  come  when  you  must  talk 
to  some  one." 

"When  I  come  back — I  will  try.  I — I  want  to  ask — 
the  Wood,"  said  Robin.  She  caught  at  a  fold  of  the 
Duchess'  dress  and  went  on  rapidly. 

"It  is  not  far.  Dr.  Redcliff  said  I  might  go.  Mrs. 
Bennett  is  there.  She  loves  me." 

"Are  you  going  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Bennett  ?" 

"N o !    No !    No !    No !    Not  to  any  one  in  the  world." 

Hapless  young  creatures  in  her  plight  must  always 
be  touching,  but  her  touchingness  was  indescribable — 
almost  unendurable  to  the  ripe  aged  woman  of  the  world 
who  watched  and  heard  her.  It  was  as  if  she  knew 
nothing  of  the  meaning  of  things — as  if  some  little 
spirit  had  been  torn  from  heaven  and  flung  down  upon 
the  dark  earth.  One  felt  that  one  must  weep  aloud 
over  the  exquisite  incomprehensible  remoteness  of  her. 
And  it  was  so  awfully  plain  that  there  was  some  tragic 
connection  with  the  Wood  and  that  her  whole  soul  cried 
out  to  it.  And  she  would  not  speak  to  any  one  in  the 
world.  Such  things  had  been  known.  Was  the  child's 
brain  wavering?  Why  not?  All  the  world  was  mad 
was  the  older  woman's  thought,  and  she  herself  after 
all  the  years,  had  for  this  moment  no  sense  of  balance 
and  felt  as  if  all  old  reasons  for  things  had  been  swept 
away. 

"If  you  will  come  back,"  she  said.     "I  will  let  you 

go-" 

After  the  poor  child  had  gone  there  formulated  itself 
in  her  mind  the  thought  that  if  Lord  Coombe  and  Mrs. 


130  BOBIN 

Bennett  met  her  together  some  clarity  might  be  reached. 
But  then  again  she  said  to  herself,  "Oh  wh-y,  after  all, 
should  she  he  asked  questions  ?  What  can  it  matter  to 
the  rest  of  the  woeful  world  if  she  hides  it  forever  in 
her  heart  ?" 

And  she  Bat  with  drooped  head  knowing  that  she 
was  tired  of  living  because  some  things  were  so  helpless. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  Wood  was  gradually  growing  darker.  It 
had  been  almost  brilliant  during  a  part  of  the 
afternoon  because  the  bareness  of  the  branches 
let  in  the  wintry  sun.  There  were  no  leaves  to  keep  it 
out  and  there  had  been  a  rare,  chill  blue  sky.  All 
seemed  cold  blue  sky  where  it  was  not  brown  or  sodden 
yellow  fern  and  moss.  The  trunks  of  the  trees  looked 
stark  and  the  tall,  slender  white  stems  of  the  birches 
stood  out  here  and  there  among  the  darker  growth  like 
ghosts  who  were  sentinels.  It  was  always  a  silent  place 
and  now  its  stillness  seemed  even  added  to  by  the  one 
sound  which  broke  it — the  sound  of  sobbing — sobbing 
— sobbing. 

It  had  been  going  on  for  some  time.  There  had 
stolen  through  the  narrow  trodden  pathway  a  dark 
slight  figure  and  this  had  dropped  upon  the  ground 
under  a  large  tree  which  was  one  of  a  group  whose 
branches  had  made  a  few  months  ago  a  canopy  of 
green  where  birds  had  built  nests  and  where  one  night 
ingale  had  sung  night  after  night  to  the  moon. 

Later — Robin  had  said  to  herself — she  would  go 
to  the  cottage,  and  she  would  sit  upon  the  hearth  and  lay 
her  head  on  Mrs.  Bennett's  knee  and  they  would  cling 
together  and  sob  and  talk  of  the  battlefields  and  the 
boys  lying  dead  there.  But  she  had  no  thought  of 
saying  any  other  thing  to  her,  because  there  was  noth 
ing  left  to  say.  She  had  said  nothing  to  Dr.  RedclifF; 
she  had  only  sat  listening  to  him  and  feeling  her  eyes 

131 


132  KOBIN 

widening  as  she  tried  to  follow  and  understand  what 
he  was  saying  in  such  a  grave,  low-toned  cautious  way — 
as  if  he  himself  were  almost  afraid  as  he  went  on. 
What  he  said  would  once  have  been  strange  and  wonder 
ful,  but  now  it  was  not,  because  wonder  had  gone  out 
of  the  world.  She  only  seemed  to  sit  stunned  before 
the  feeling  that  now  the  dream  was  not  a  sacred  secret 
any  longer  and  there  grew  within  her,  as  she  heard,  a 
wild  longing  to  fly  to  the  Wood  as  if  it  were  a  living 
human  thing  who  would  hear  her  and  understand — as 
if  it  would  be  like  arms  enclosing  her.  Something 
would  be  there  listening  and  she  could  talk  to  it  and 
ask  it  what  to  do. 

She  had  spoken  to  it  as  she  staggered  down  the  path — 
she  had  cried  out  to  it  with  wild  broken  words,  and  then 
when  she  heard  nothing  she  had  fallen  down  upon  the 
earth  and  the  sobbing — sobbing — had  begun. 

"Donal!"  she  said.  "Donal!"  And  again,  "Donal!" 
over  and  over.  But  nothing  answered,  for  even  that 
which  had  been  Donal — with  the  heavenly  laugh  and 
the  blue  in  his  gay  eyes  and  the  fine,  long  smooth  hands 
— had  been  blown  to  fragments  in  a  field  somewhere — 
and  there  was  nothing  anywhere. 

***** 

She  had  heard  no  footsteps  and  she  was  sobbing  still 
when  a  voice  spoke  at  her  side — the  voice  of  some  one 
standing  near. 

"It  is  Donal  you  want,  poor  child — no  one  else,"  it 
said. 

That  it  should  be  this  voice — Lord  Coombe's !  And 
that  amazing  as  it  was  to  hear  it,  she  was  not  amazed 
and  did  not  care !  JTer  sobbing  ceased  so  far  as  sobbing 


KOBItf  133 

can  cease  on  full  flow.  She  lay  still  bufr  for  low  shud 
dering  breaths. 

"I  have  come  because  it  is  Donal,"  he  said.  "You 
told  me  once  that  you  had  always  hated  me.  Hatred*  is 
useless  now.  Don't  feel  it." 

But  she  did  not  answer. 

"You  probably  will  not  believe  anything  I  say.  Well 
I  must  speak  to  you  whether  you  believe  me  or  not." 

She  lay  still  and  he  himself  was  silent.  His  voice 
seemed  to  be  a  sudden  thing  when  he  spoke. 

"I  loved  him  too.  I  found  it  out  the  morning  I  saw 
him  march  away." 

He  had  seen  him !  Since  she  had  looked  at  his  beauti 
ful  face  this  man  had  looked  at  it ! 

"You !"  She  sat  up  on  the  earth  and  gazed,  swaying. 
So  he  knew  he  could  go  on. 

"I  wanted  a  son.  I  once  lay  on  the  moss  in  a  wood 
and  sobbed  as  you  have  sobbed.  She  was  killed  too." 

But  Robin  was  thinking  only  of  Donal. 

"What — was  his  face  like?  Did  you — see  him 
near?" 

"Quite  near.  I  stood  on  the  street.  I  followed.  He 
did  not  see  me.  He  saw  nothing." 

The  sobbing  broke  forth  again. 

"Did — did  his  eyes  look  as  if  he  had  been  crying? 
He  did  cry— he  did!" 

The  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe  showed  no 
muscular  facial  sign  of  emotion  and  stood  stiffly  still. 
But  what  was  this  which  leaped  scalding  to  his  glazed 
eyes  and  felt  hot  ? 

"Yes,"  he  answered  huskily.  "I  saw — even  as  he 
marched  past — that  his  eyes  were  heavy  and  had  cir 
cles  round  them.  There  were  other  eyes  like  his — some 


134  KOBIN 

were  boys'  eyes  and  some  were  the  eyes  of  men.  They 
held  their  heads  up — but  they  had  all  said  'Good-bye7 — 
as  he  had." 

The  Wood  echoed  to  a  sound  which  was  a  heart- 
wrung  wail  and  she  dropped  forward  on  the  moss  again 
and  lay  there. 

"He  said,  'Oh,  let  us  cry — together — together!  Oh 
little — lovely  love7 !" 

She  who  would  have  borne  torment  rather  than  betray 
the  secret  of  the  dream,  now  that  it  could  no  longer  be  a 
secret  lay  reft  of  all  but  memories  and  the  wild  long 
ing  to  hold  to  her  breast  some  shred  which  was  her  own. 
He  let  her  wail,  but  when  her  wailing  ceased  helplessly 
he  bent  over  her. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "If  Donal  were  here  he 
would  tell  you  to  listen.  You  are  a  child.  You  are 
too  young  to  know  what  has  come  upon  you — 
both." 

She  did  not  speak. 

"You  were  both  too  young — and  you  were  driven  by 
fate.  If  he  had  been  more  than  a  boy — and  if  he  had 
not  been  in  a  frenzy — he  would  have  remembered.  He 
would  have  thought — " 

Yes — yes!  She  knew  how  young!  But  oh,  what 
mattered  youth — or  thought — or  remembering!  Her 
small  band  beat  in  soft  impatience  on  the  ground. 

He  was — strangely — on  one  knee  beside  her,  his 
head  bent  close,  and  in  his  voice  there  was  a  new  strong 
insistence — as  if  he  would  not  let  her  alone —  Oh ! 
Donal !  Donal ! 

"He  would  have  remembered — that  he  might  leave  a 
child !" 

His  voice  was  almost  hard.  She  did  not  know  that  i» 
his  mind  was  a  memory  which  now  in  secret  broke  him 


ROBIN  135 

— a  memory  of  a  belief  which  was  a  thing  he  had  held 
as  a  gift — a  certain  faith  in  a  clear  young  highness  and 
strength  of  body  and  soul  in  this  one  scion  of  his  house, 
which  even  in  youth's  madness  would  have  remembered. 
If  the  lad  had  been  his  own  son  he  might  have  felt 
something  of  the  same  pang. 

His  words  brought  back  what  she  had  heard  Red- 
cliff  say  to  her  earlier  in  the  day — the  thing  which  had 
only  struck  her  again  to  the  earth. 

"It — will  have — no  father,"  she  shuddered.  "There 
is  not  even  a  grave." 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder — he  even  tried  to 
force  her  to  lift  her  head. 

"It  must  have  a  father,"  he  said,  harshly.  "Look  at 
me.  It  must" 

Stupefied  and  lost  to  all  things  as  she  was,  she  heard 
something  in  his  harshness  she  could  not  understand 
and  was  startled  by.  Her  small  starved  face  stared  at 
him  piteously.  There  was  no  one  but  herself  left  in  the 
world. 

"There  is  no  time — "  he  broke  forth. 

"He  said  so  too,"  she  cried  out.  "There  was  no 
time!" 

"But  he  should  have  remembered,"  the  harsh  voice 
revealed  more  than  he  knew.  "He  could  have  given  his 
child  all  that  life  holds  that  men  call  happiness.  How 
could  even  a  lad  forget!  He  loved  you — you  loved 
him.  If  he  had  married  you — " 

He  stopped  in  the  midst  of  the  words.  The  little 
starved  face  stared  at  him  with  a  kind  of  awfulness  of 
woe.  She  spoke  as  if  she  scarcely  knew  the  words  she 
uttered,  and  not,  he  saw,  in  the  least  as  if  she  were 
defending  herself — or  as  if  she  cared  whether  he  be 
lieved  her  or  not — or  as  if  it  mattered- 


136  EOBIN 

"Did  you — think  we  were — not  married  2"  lite  words 
dragged  out. 

Something  turned  over  in  his  side.  He  had  heard 
it  said  that  hearts  did  such  things.  It  turned — be 
cause  she  did  not  care.  She  knew  what  love  and 
death  were — what  they  were — not  merely  what  they 
were  called — and  life  and  shame  and  loss  meant  noth 
ing. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?"  he  heard  the 
harshness  of  his  voice  break.  "For  God's  sake,  child, 
let  me  hear  the  truth." 

She  did  not  even  care  then  and  only  put  her  childish 
elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept 
and  wept. 

"There  was — no  time,"  she  said.  "Every  day  he 
said  it.  He  knew — he  knew.  Before  he  was  killed  he 
wanted  something  that  was  his  own.  It  was  our  secret. 
I^wanted  to  keep  it  his  secret  till  I  died." 

"Where,"  he  spoke  low  and  tensely,  "were  you  mar 
ried  ?» 

"I  do  not  know.  It  was  a  little  house  in  a  poor 
crowded  street.  Donal  took  me.  Suddenly  we  were 
frightened  because  we  thought  he  was  to  go  away  in 
three  days.  A  young  chaplain  who  was  going  away  too 
was  his  friend.  He  had  just  been  married  himself. 
He  did  it  because  he  was  sorry  for  us.  There  was  no 
time.  His  wife  lent  me  a  ring.  They  were  young  too 
and  they  were  sorry." 

"What  was  the  man's  name  ?" 

"I  can't  remember.  I  was  trembling  all  the  time. 
I  knew  nothing.  That  was  like  a  dream  too.  It  was 
all  a  dream." 

"You  do  nof  remember  ?"  he  persisted.  "You  were 
married — and  have  no  proof." 


ROBIX  137 

"We  came  away  so  quickly.  Donal  held  me  in  his 
arm  in  the  cab  because  I  trembled.  Donal  knew. 
Donal  knew  everything." 

He  was  a  man  who  had  lived  through  tragedy  but 
that  had  been  long  ago.  Since  then  he  had  only  known 
the  things  of  the  world.  He  had  seen  struggles  and 
tricks  and  paltry  craftiness.  He  had  known  of  women 
caught  in  traps  of  folly  and  passion  and  weakness  and 
had  learned  how  terror  taught  them  to  lie  and  shift 
and  even  show  abnormal  cleverness.  Above  all  he  knew 
exactly  what  the  world  would  say  if  a  poor  wretch  of  a 
girl  told  a  story  like  this  of  a  youngster  like  Donal — 
when  he  was  no  longer  on  earth  to  refute  it. 

And  yet  if  these  wild  things  were  true,  here  in  a 
wintry  wood  she  sat  a  desolate  and  undefended  thing — 
with  but  one  thought.  And  in  that  which  was  most 
remote  in  his  being  he  was  conscious  that  he  was  for 
the  moment  relieved  because  even  worldly  wisdom  was 
not  strong  enough  to  overcome  his  desire  to  believe  in 
a  certain  thing  which  was — that  the  boy  would  have 
played  fair  even  when  his  brain  whirled  and  all  his 
fierce  youth  beset  him. 

As  he  regarded  her  he  saw  that  it  would  be  difficult 
to  reach  her  mind  which  was  so  torn  and  stunned.  But 
by  some  method  he  must  reach  it. 

"You  must  answer  all  the  questions  I  ask,"  he  said. 
"It  is  for  Donal's  sake." 

She  did  not  lift  her  face  and  made  no  protest. 

He  began  to  ask  such  questions  as  a  sane  man  would 
know  must  be  answered  clearly  and  as  he  heard  her  reply 
to  each  he  gradually  reached  the  realisation  of  what 
her  empty-handed,  naked  helplessness  confronted. 
That  he  himself  comprehended  what  no  outsider  would, 
was  due  to  his  memories  of  heart-wrung  hours,  of 


138  KOBIJST 

days  and  nights  when  he  too  had  been  unable  to  think 
quite  sanely  or  to  reason  with  a  normal  brain.  Youth  is 
a  remorseless  master.  He  could  see  the  tempest  of  it 
all — the  hours  of  heaven — and  the  glimpses  of  hell's 
self — on  whose  brink  the  two  had  stood  clinging  breast 
to  breast.  With  subtle  carefulness  he  slowly  gleaned 
it  all.  He  followed  the  rising  of  the  tide  which  at 
first  had  borne  them  along  unquestioning.  They  had 
not  even  asked  where  they  were  going  because  the  way 
led  through  young  paradise.  Then  terror  had  awakened 
them.  There  had  come  to  them  the  news  of  death  day 
after  day — lads  they  knew  and  had  seen  laughing  a 
few  weeks  before — Halwyn,  Meredith,  Jack  or  Harry 
or  Phil.  A  false  rumour  of  a  sudden  order  to  the  Front 
and  they  had  stood  and  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes  in  a 
fateful  hour.  Robin  did  not  know  of  the  picture  her 
disjointed,  sobbed-forth  sentences  and  words  made 
clear.  Coombe  could  see  the  lad  as  he  stood  before  her 
in  this  very  Wood  and  then  went  slowly  down  upon  his 
knees  and  kissed  her  small  feet  in  the  moss  as  he  made 
his  prayer.  There  had  been  something  rarely  beauti 
ful  in  the  ecstasy  of  his  tenderness — and  she  had  given 
herself  as  a  flower  gives  itself  to  be  gathered.  She 
seemed  to  have  seen  nothing,  noted  nothing,  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  mad  marriage,  but  Donal,  who  held  her  trem 
bling  in  his  arms  as  they  drove  through  the  crowded 
streets  in  the  shabby  neighbourhood  she  had 
never  seen  before,  to  the  house  crowded  between 
others  all  like  itself.  She  had  actually  not  heard  the 
young  chaplain's  name  in  her  shyness  and  tremor. 
He  would  scarcely  have  been  an  entity  but 
for  the  one  moving  fact  that  he  himself  had 
just  hastily  married  a  girl  he  adored  and  must  leave, 
and  so  sympathised  and  understood  the  stress  of  their 


ROBIN  139 

hour.  On  their  way  home  they  had  been  afraid  of 
chance  recognition  and  had  tried  to  shield  themselves  by 
sitting  as  far  back  as  possible  in  the  cab. 

"I  could  not  think.  I  could  not  see.  It  was  all 
frightening — and  unreal." 

She  had  not  dreamed  of  asking  questions.  Donal 
had  taken  care  of  her  and  tried  to  help  her  to  be  less 
afraid  of  seeing  people  who  might  recognise  her.  She 
had  tilted  her  hat  over  her  face  and  worn  a  veil.  She 
had  gone  home  to  Eaton  Square — and  then  in  the 
afternoon  to  the  cottage  at  Mersham  Wood. 

They  had  not  written  letters  to  each  other.  Robin 
had  been  afraid  and  they  had  met  almost 
every  day.  Once  Lord  Coombe  thought  himself 
on  the  track  of  some  clue  when  she  touched 
vaguely  on  some  paper  Donal  had  meant  to  send  her 
and  had  perhaps  forgotten  in  the  haste  and  pressure  of 
the  last  few  hours  because  his  orders  had  been  so  sud 
den.  But  there  was  no  trace.  There  had  been  some 
thing  he  wished  her  to  have.  But  if  this  had  meant 
that  his  brain  had  by  chance  cleared  to  sane  reasoning 
and  he  had,  for  a  few  moments  touched  earth  and  in 
tended  to  send  her  some  proof  which  would  be  protec 
tion  if  she  needed  it — the  moment  had  been  too  late  and, 
at  the  last,  action  had  proved  impossible.  And  Death 
had  come  so  soon.  It  was  as  though  a  tornado  had 
swept  him  out  of  her  arms  and  dashed  him  broken  to 
earth.  And  she  was  left  with  nothing  because  she  asked 
nothing — wanted  nothing. 

The  obviousness  of  this^  when  he  had  ended  his  ques 
tioning  and  exhausted  his  resources,  was  a  staggering 
thing. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  grimly,  after  it  was  all  over, 
" — that  no  one  will  believe  you  ?" 


140  KOBIN 

"Donal  knew/'  she  said.  "There  is  no  one — no  one 
else." 

"You  mean  that  there  is  no  one  whose  helief  or  dis 
belief  would  affect  you  ?" 

The  Wood  was  growing  darker  still  and  she  had 
ceased  crying  and  sat  still  like  a  small  ghost  in  the  dim 
light. 

"There  never  was  any  one  but  Donal,  you  know," 
she  said.  To  all  the  rest  of  the  world  she  was  as  a 
creature  utterly  unawake  and  to  a  man  who  was  of  the 
world  and  who  had  lived  a  long  life  in  it  the  contem 
plation  of  her  was  a  strange  and  baffling  thing. 

"You  do  not  ask  whether  /  believe  you  ?"  he  spoke 
quite  low. 

The  silence  of  the  darkening  wood  was  unearthly 
and  her  dropped  word  scarcely  stirred  it. 

"No,"     She  had  never  even  thought  of  it. 

He  himself  was  inwardly  shaken  by  his  own  feeling. 

"I  will  believe  you  if — you  will  believe  me,"  was 
what  he  said,  a  singular  sharp  new  desire  impelling 
him. 

She  merely  lifted  her  face  a  little  so  that  her  eyes 
rested  upon  him. 

"Because  of  this  tragic  thing  you  must  believe  me. 
It  will  be  necessary  that  you  should.  What  you  have 
thought  of  me  with  regard  to  your  mother  is  not  true. 
You  believed  it  because  the  world  did.  Denial  on  my 
part  would  merely  have  called  forth  laughter.  Why 
not?  When  a  man  who  has  money  and  power  takes 
charge  of  a  pretty,  penniless  woman  and  pays  her  bills, 
the  pose  of  Joseph  or  Galahad  is  not  a  good  one  for  him. 
My  statement  would  no  more  have  been  believed  than 
yours  will  be  believed  if  you  can  produce  no  proof. 
What  you  say  is  what  any  girl  might  say  in  your 


KOBIN  141 

dilemma,  what  I  should  have  said  would  have  beea  what 
any  man  might  have  said.  But — I  believe  you.  Do 
you  believe  me  ?" 

She  did  not  understand  why  suddenly — though  lan 
guidly — she  knew  that  he  was  telling  her  a  thing  which 
was  true.  It  was  no  longer  of  consequence  but  she 
knew  it.  And  if  it  was  true  all  she  had  hated  him  for 
so  long  had  been  founded  on  nothing.  He  had  not  been 
bad — he  had  only  looked  bad  and  that  he  could  not 
help.  But  what  did  that  matter,  either?  She  could 
not  feel  even  sorry. 

"I  will — try,"  she  answered. 

It  was  no  use  as  yet,  he  saw.  What  he  was  trying  to 
deal  with  was  in  a  new  Dimension. 

He  held  out  his  hands  and  helped  her  to  her  feet. 

"The  Wood  is  growing  very  dark,"  he  said.  "We 
must  go.  I  will  take  you  to  Mrs.  Bennett's  and  you 
can  spend  the  night  with  her." 

The  Wood  was  growing  dark  indeed.  He  was  obliged 
to  guide  her  through  the  closeness  of  the  undergrowth. 
They  threaded  their  way  along  the  narrow  path  and 
the  shadows  seemed  to  close  in  behind  them.  Before 
they  reached  the  end  which  would  have  led  them  out 
into  the  open  he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  held 
her  back. 

"In  this  Wood — even  now — there  is  Something  which 
must  be  saved  from  suffering.  It  is  helpless — it  is 
blameless.  It  is  not  you — it  is  not  Donal.  God  help 
it." 

He  spoke  steadily  but  strangely  and  his  voice  was  so 
low  that  it  was  almost  a  whisper — though  it  was  not  one. 
For  the  first  time  she  felt  something  stir  in  her  stunned 
mind — as  if  thought  were  wakening — fear — a  vague 
quaking.  Her  wan  small  face  began  to  wonder  and  in 


142  KOBIltf 

the  dark  roundness  of  her  eyes  a  question  was  to  be  seeii 
like  a  drowned  thing  slowly  rising  from  the  deeps  of  a 
pool.  But  she  asked  no  question.  She  only  waited  a 
few  moments  and  let  him  look  at  her  until  she  said  at 
last  in  a  voice  as  near  a  whisper  as  his  own. 
"I — will  believe  you." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HE  was  alone  with  the  Duchess.  The  doors  were 
closed,  and  the  world  shut  out  by  her  own  order. 
She  leaned  against  the  high  back  of  her  chair, 
watching  him  intently  as  she  listened.  He  walked 
slowly  up  and  down  the  room  with  long  paces.  He 
had  been  doing  it  for  some  time  and  he  had  told  her 
from  beginning  to  end  the  singular  story  of  what  had 
happened  when  he  found  Robin  lying  face  downward 
on  the  moss  in  Mersham  Wood. 

This  is  what  he  was  saying  in  a  low,  steady  voice. 

"She  had  not  once  thought  of  what  most  women 
would  have  thought  of  before  anything  else.  If  I  were 
speaking  to  another  person  than  yourself  I  should  say 
that  she  was  too  ignorant  of  the  world.  To  you  I  will 
say  that  she  is  not  merely  a  girl — she  is  the  unearthly 
luckless  embodiment  of  the  pure  spirit  of  .Love.  She 
knew  only  worship  and  the  rapt  giving  of  gifts.  Her 
unearthliness  made  him  forget  earth  himself.  Folly 
and  madness  of  course !  Incredible  madness — it  would 
seem  to  most  people — a  decently  intelligent  lad  losing  his 
head  wholly  and  not  regaining  his  senses  until  it  was 
too  late  to  act  sanely.  But  perhaps  not  quite  incredible 
to  you  and  me.  There  must  have  been  days  which 
seemed  to  him — and  lads  like  him — like  the  last  hours 
of  a  condemned  man.  In  the  midst  of  love  and  terror 
and  the  agony  of  farewells — what  time  was  there  for 
sanity  ?" 

"You  believe  her?"  the  Duchess  said. 

143 


144  KOBIN 

"Yes,"  impersonally.  "In  spite  of  the  world,  the 
flesh  and  the  devil.  I  also  know  that  no  one  else  will. 
To  most  people  her  story  will  seem  a  thing  trumped 
up  out  of  a  fourth  rate  novel.  The  law  will  not  listen 
to  it.  You  will — when  you  see  her  unawakened  face." 

"I  have  seen  it,"  was  the  Duchess'  interpolation. 
"I  saw  it  when  she  went  upon  her  knees  and  prayed 
that  I  would  let  her  go  to  Mersham  Wood.  There 
was  something  inexplicable  in  her  remoteness  from 
fear  and  shame.  She  was  only  woe's  self.  I  did  not 
comprehend.  I  was  merely  a  baffled  old  woman  of 
the  world.  Now  I  begin  to  see.  I  believe  her  as 
you  do.  The  world  and  the  law  will  laugh  at  us  be 
cause  we  have  none  of  the  accepted  reasons  for  our  be 
lief.  But  I  believe  her  as  you  do — absurd  as  it  will 
seem  to  others." 

"Yes,  it  will  seem  absurd,"  Coombe  said  slowly  pac 
ing.  "But  here  she  is — and  here  we  are !" 

"What  do  you  see  before  us  ?"  she  asked  of  his  deep 
thought. 

"I  see  a  helpless  girl  in  a  dark  plight.  As  far  as 
knowledge  of  how  to  defend  herself  goes,  she  is  as 
powerless  as  a  child  fresh  from  a  nursery.  She  lives 
among  people  with  observing  eyes  already  noting  the 
change  in  her  piteous  face.  Her  place  in  your  house 
makes  her  a  centre  of  attention.  The  observation  of 
her  beauty  and  happiness  has  been  good-natured  so  far. 
The  observation  will  continue,  but  in  time  its  character 
will  change.  I  see  that  before  anything  else." 

"It  is  the  first  thing  to  be  considered,"  she  answered. 

"The  next — "  she  paused  and  thought  seriously,  "is 
her  mother.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  has  sharp 
eyes.  She  said  to  you  something  rather  vulgarly  hid- 


EOBIN  145 

eous  about  being  glad  her  daughter  was  in  my  house 
and  not  in  hers.'7 

"Her  last  words  to  Eobin  were  to  warn  her  not  to 
come  to  her  for  refuge  'if  she  got  herself  into  a  mess.7 
She  is  in  what  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  would  call  'a 
mess/  v 

"It  is  what  a  good  many  people  would  call  it,"  the 
Duchess  said.  "And  she  does  not  even  know  that 
her  tragedy  would  express  itself  in  a  mere  vulgar  col 
loquialism  with  a  modern  snigger  in  it.  Presently, 
poor  child,  when  she  awakens  a  little  more  she  will 
begin  to  go  about  looking  like  a  little  saint.  Do  you 
see  that — as  I  do  ?" 

She  thought  he  did  and  that  he  was  moved  by  it 
though  he  did  not  say  so. 

"I  am  thinking  first  of  her  mother.  Mrs.  Gareth- 
Lawless  must  see  and  hear  nothing.  She  is  not  a  crim 
inal  or  malignant  creature,  but  her  light  malice  is  ca 
pable  of  playing  flimsily  with  any  atrocity.  She  has 
not  brain  enough  to  know  that  she  can  be  atrocious. 
'Kobin  can  be  protected  only  if  she  is  shut  out  of  the 
whole  affair.  She  was  simply  speaking  the  truth  when 
she  warned  the  girl  not  to  come  to  her  in  case  of  need." 

"For  a  little  longer  I  can  keep  her  here,"  the 
Duchess  said.  "As  she  looks  ill  it  will  not  be  un 
natural  that  the  doctor  should  advise  me  to  send  her 
away  from  London.  It  is  not  possible  to  remember 
anything  long  in  the  life  we  live  now.  She  will  be 
forgotten  in  a  week.  That  part  of  it  will  be  simple." 

"Yes,"  he  answered.     "Yes." 

He  paced  the  length  of  the  room  twice — three  times 
and  said  nothing.  She  watched  him  as  he  walked  and 
she  knew  he  was  going  to  say  more.  She  also  wondered 


146  ROBIN 

what  curious  thing  it  might  be.  She  had  said  to  herself 
that  what  he  said  and  did  would  be  entirely  detached 
from  ordinary  or  archaic  views.  Also  she  had  guessed 
that  it  might  be  extraordinary — perhaps  as  extraordi 
nary  as  his  long  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless. 
Was  there  a  possibility  that  he  was  going  to  express 
himself  now? 

"But  that  is  not  all,"  he  said  at  last  and  he  ended  his 
pondering  walk  by  coming  nearer  to  her.  He  sat  down 
and  touched  the  newspapers  lying  on  the  table. 

"You  have  been  poring  over  these,"  he  said,  "and  I 
have  been  doing  the  same  thing.  I  have  also  been  talk 
ing  to  the  people  who  know  things  and  to  those  who 
ought  to  know  them  but  don't.  Just  now  the  news  is 
worse  each  day.  In  the  midst  of  the  roar  and  thunder 
of  cataclysms  to  talk  about  a  mere  girl  'in  trouble' 
appears  disproportionate.  But  because  our  world  seems 
crumbling  to  pieces  about  us  she  assumes  proportions 
of  her  own.  I  was  born  of  the  old  obstinate  passions  of 
belief  in  certain  established  things  and  in  their  way  they 
have  had  their  will  of  me.  Lately  it  has  forced  itself 
upon  me  that  I  am  not  as  modern  as  I  have  professed  to 
be.  The  new  life  has  gripped  me,  but  the  old  has  not 
let  me  go.  There  are  things  I  cannot  bear  to  see  lost 
forever  without  a  struggle." 

"Such  as — "  she  said  it  very  low. 

"I  conceal  things  from  myself,"  he  answered,  "but 
they  rise  and  confront  me.  There  were  days  when  we 
at  least  believed — quite  obstinately — in  a  number  of 
things." 

"Sometimes  quite  heroically,"  she  admitted.  "  'God 
Save  the  Queen'  in  its  long  day  had  actual  glow  and 
passion.  I  have  thrilled  and  glowed  myself  at  the 
shouting  song  of  it." 


KOBIN  147 

"Yea,"  he  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her  and  his  cold 
face  gained  a  slight  colour.  "In  those  days  when  a  son 
— or  a  grandson — was  born  to  the  head  of  a  house  it 
was  a  serious  and  impressive  affair." 

"Yes."  And  he  knew  she  at  once  recalled  her  own 
son — and  George  in  Flanders. 

"It  meant  new  generations,  and  generations  counted 
for  decent  dignity  as  well  as  power.  A  farmer  would 
say  with  huge  pride,  'Me  and  mine  have  worked  the 
place  for  four  generations,'  as  he  would  say  of  the  owner 
of  the  land,  'Him  and  his  have  held  it  for  six  centuries.' 
Centuries  and  generations  are  in  danger  of  no  longer 
inspiring  special  reverence.  It  is  the  future  and  the 
things  to  be  which  count." 

"The  things  to  be — yes,"  the  Duchess  said  and 
knew  that  he  was  drawing  near  the  thing  he  had  to 
say. 

"I  suppose  I  was  born  a  dogged  sort  of  devil,"  he  went 
on  almost  in  a  monotone.  "The  fact  did  not  manifest 
itself  to  me  until  I  came  to  the  time  when — all  the 
rest  of  me  dropped  into  a  bottomless  gulf.  That  per 
haps  describes  it.  I  found  myself  suddenly  standing 
on  the  edge  of  it.  And  youth,  and  future,  and  belief 
in  the  use  of  hoping  and  real  enjoyment  of  things 
dropped  into  the  blackness  and  were  gone  while  I 
looked  on.  If  I  had  not  been  born  a  dogged  devil  I 
should  have  blown  my  brains  out.  If  I  had  been 
born  gentler  or  kinder  or  more  patient  I  should  perhaps 
have  lived  it  down  and  found  there  was  something  left. 
A  man's  way  of  facing  things  depends  upon  the  kind  of 
thing  he  was  born.  I  went  on  living  without — the  rest 
of  myself.  I  closed  my  mouth  and  not  only  my  mouth 
but  my  life — as  far  as  other  men  and  women  were  con 
cerned.  When  I  found  an  interest  stirring  in  me  I 


148  ROBIN 

shut  another  door — that  was  all.  Whatsoever  went  on 
did  it  behind  a  shut  door." 

"But  there  were  things  which  went  on  ?"  the  Duchess 
gently  suggested. 

"In  a  hidden  way — yes.  That  is  what  I  am  coming 
to.  When  I  first  saw  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  sitting  under 
her  tree — "  He  suddenly  stopped.  "No,"  harshly,  "I 
need  not  put  it  into  words  to  you."  Then  a  pause  as 
if  for  breath.  "She  had  a  way  of  lifting  her  eyes  as  a 
very  young  angel  might — she  had  a  quivering  spirit  of  a 
smile — and  soft,  deep  curled  corners  to  her  mouth.  You 
saw  the  same  things  in  the  old  photograph  you  bought. 
The  likeness  was —  Oh!  it  was  hellish  that  such  a  re 
semblance  could  be!  In  less  than  half  an  hour  after 
she  spoke  to  me  I  had  shut  another  door.  But  I  was 
obliged  to  go  and  look  at  her  again  and  again.  The 
resemblance  drew  me.  By  the  time  her  husband  died 
I  knew  her  well  enough  to  be  sure  what  would  happen. 
Some  man  would  pick  her  up  and  throw  her  aside — and 
then  some  one  else.  She  could  have  held  nothing 
long.  She  would  have  passed  from  one  hand  to  another 
until  she  was  tossed  into  the  gutter  and  swept  away — 
quivering  spirit  of  a  smile  and  all  of  it.  I  could  not 
have  shut  any  door  on  that.  I  prevented  it — and  kept 
her  clean — by  shutting  doors  right  and  left.  I  have 
watched  over  her.  At  times  it  has  bored  me  fright 
fully.  But  after  a  year  or  so — behind  another  door  I 
had  shut  the  child." 

"Robin?  I  had  sometimes  thought  so,"  said  the 
Duchess. 

"I  did  not  know  why  exactly.  It  was  not  affection 
or  attraction.  It  was  a  sort  of  resentment  of  the 
beastly  unfairness  of  things.  The  bottomless  gulf 
seemed  to  yawn  in  her  path  when  she  was  nothing  but 


ROBIN  149 

a  baby.  Everything  was  being  tosaed  into  it  before  she 
had  taken  a  step.  I  began  to  keep  an  eye  on  her  and 
prevent  things — or  assist  them.  It  was  more  fury  than 
benevolence,  but  it  has  gone  on  for  years — behind  the 
shut  door." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  have  been  entirely  free  from 
all  affection  for  her  ?"  The  Duchess  asked  the  question 
impersonally  though  with  a  degree  of  interest. 

"I  think  so.  I  am  less  sure  that  I  have  the  power  to 
feel  what  is  called  'affection'  for  any  one.  I  think  that 
I  have  felt  something  nearer  it  for  Donal — and  for  you 
— than  for  any  one  else.  But  when  the  child  talked 
to  me  in  the  wood  I  felt  for  the  first  time  that  I  wished 
her  to  know  that  my  relation  to  her  mother  was  not 
the  reason  for  her  hating  me  which  she  had  be 
lieved." 

"She  shall  be  made  to  understand,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"She  must,"  he  said,  "because  of  the  rest." 

The  last  four  words  were,  as  it  were,  italicised.  Now, 
she  felt,  she  was  probably  about  to  hear  the  chief  thing 
he  had  been  approaching.  So  she  waited  attentively. 

"Behind  a  door  has  been  shut  another  thing,"  he  said 
and  he  endeavoured  to  say  it  with  his  usual  detached 
rigidity  of  calm,  but  did  not  wholly  succeed.  "It  is  the 
outcome  of  the  generations  and  the  centuries  at  present 
diminishing  in  value  and  dignity.  The  past  having 
had  its  will  of  me  and  the  present  and  future  having 
gripped  me — if  I  had  had  a  son — " 

As  if  in  a  flash  she  saw  as  he  lingered  on  the  words 
that  he  was  speaking  of  a  thing  of  which  he  had  secretly 
thought  often  and  much,  though  he  had  allowed  no 
human  being  to  suspect  it  She  had  not  suspected  it 
herself.  In  a  secretive,  intense  way  he  had  passionately 
desired  a  son. 


150  KOBIN 

"If  you  had  had  a  son — "  she  repeated. 

"He  would  have  stood  for  both — the  past  and  the 
future — at  the  beginning  of  a  New  World/'  he  ended. 

He  said  it  with  such  deliberate  meaning  that  the  mag 
nitude  of  his  possible  significance  caused  her  to  draw  a 
sudden  breath. 

"Is  it  going  to  be  a  New  World  ?"  she  said. 

"It  cannot  be  the  old  one.  I  don't  take  it  upon 
myself  to  describe  the  kind  of  world  it  will  be.  That 
will  depend  upon  the  men  and  women  who  build  it. 
Those  who  were  born  during  the  last  few  years — those 
who  are  about  to  be  born  now." 

Then  she  knew  what  he  was  thinking  of. 

"Donal's  child  will  be  one  of  them/'  she  said. 

"The  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe — if  there  is  a 
Head  who  starts  fair — ought  to  have  quite  a  lot  to  say 
— and  do.  Howsoever  black  things  look/'  obstinately 
fierce,  "England  is  not  done  for.  At  the  worst  no  real 
Englishman  believes  she  can  be.  She  can't!  You 
know  the  old  saying,  'In  all  wars  England  loses  battles, 
but  she  always  wins  one — the  last  one.'  She  always 
will.  Afterwards  she  must  do  her  bit  for  the  New 
World." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THIS  then  was  it — the  New  World  and  the  human 
creatures  who  were  to  build  it,  the  unborn 
as  well  as  those  now  in  their  cradles  or  tottering 
in  their  first  step  on  the  pathway  leading  to  the  place 
of  building.  Yet  he  himself  had  no  thought  of  there 
being  any  touch  of  heroic  splendour  in  his  way  of 
looking  at  it.  He  was  not  capable  of  drama.  Behind 
his  shut  doors  of  immovability  and  stiff  coldness,  be 
hind  his  cynic  habit  of  treating  all  things  with  detached 
lightness,  the  generations  and  the  centuries  had  con 
tinued  their  work  in  spite  of  his  modernity.  His  Brit 
ish  obstinacy  would  not  relinquish  the  long  past  he  and 
his  had  seemed  to  own  in  representing  it.  He  had  loved 
one  woman,  and  one  only — with  a  love  like  a  deep 
wound;  he  had  longed  for  a  son;  he  had  stubbornly 
undertaken  to  protect  a  creature  he  felt  life  had  treated 
unfairly.  The  shattering  of  the  old  world  had  stirred 
in  him  a  powerful  interest  in  the  future  of  the  new 
one  whose  foundations  were  yet  to  be  laid.  The  com 
bination  of  these  things  might  lead  to  curious  develop 
ments. 

They  sat  and  talked  long  and  the  developments  were 
perhaps  more  unusual  than  she  had  imagined  they  might 
be. 

"If  I  had  been  able  to  express  the  something  which 
approached  affection  which  I  felt  for  Donal,  he  would 
have  found  out  that  my  limitations  were  not  deliberately 
evil  proclivities,"  was  one  of  the  things  he  said.  "One 

151 


152  KOBIN 

day  he  would  have  ended  by  making  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
He  was  afraid  of  me.  I  suspect  he  was  afraid  of  his 
mother — fond  as  they  were  of  each  other.  I  should 
have  taken  the  matter  in  hand  and  married  the  pair  of 
them  at  once — quietly  if  they  preferred  it,  but  safely 
and  sanely.  God  knows  I  should  have  comprehended 
their  wish  to  keep  a  roaring  world  out  of  their  paradise. 
It  was  paradise !" 

"How  you  believe  her !"  she  exclaimed. 

"She  is  not  a  trivial  thing,  neither  was  he.  If  I 
did  not  believe  her  I  should  know  that  he  meant  to 
marry  her,  even  if  fate  played  them  some  ghastly  trick 
and  there  was  not  time.  Another  girl's  consciousness 
of  herself  might  have  saved  her,  but  she  had  no  con 
sciousness  but  his.  If — if  a  son  is  born  he  should  be 
what  his  father  would  have  been  after  my  death.57 

"The  Head  of  the  House,"  the  Duchess  said. 

"It  is  a  curious  thing,"  he  deliberated,  "that  now 
there  remains  no  possible  head  but  what  is  left  of  my 
self — it  ceases  to  seem  the  mere  pompous  phrase  one 
laughed  at — the  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe.  Here 
I,  of  all  men,  sit  before  you  glaring  into  the  empty 
future  and  demanding  one.  There  ought  to  have  been 
more  males  in  the  family.  Only  four  were  killed — 
and  we  are  done  for." 

"If  you  had  seen  them  married  before  he  went 
away — "  she  began. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  as  if  involuntarily.  He  looked 
as  she  had  never  seen  him  look  before. 

"Allow  me  to  make  a  fantastic  confession  to  you," 
he  said.  "It  will  open  doors.  If  all  were  as  the  law 
foolishly  demands  it  should  be — if  she  were  safe  in  the 
ordinary  way — absurdly  incredible  or  not  as  the  state 
ment  may  seem — I  should  now  be  at  her  feet." 


ROBIJST  153 

"At  her  feet  1"  she  said  slowly,  because  she  felt  her 
self  facing  actual  revelation. 

"Her  child  would  be  to  me  the  child  of  the  son  who 
ought  to  have  been  born  to  me  a  life  time  ago.  God, 
how  I  have  wanted  him!  Robin,  would  seem  to  be 
what  another  Madonna-like  young  creature  might  have 
been  if  she  had  been  my  wife.  She  would  not  know 
that  she  was  a  little  saint  on  an  altar.  She  would 
be  the  shrine  of  the  past  and  the  future.  In  my  in 
expressive  way  I  should  be  worshipping  before  her. 
That  her  possible  son  would  rescue  the  House  of  Coombe 
from  extinction  would  have  meant  much,  but  it  would 
be  a  mere  detail.  Now  you  understand." 

Yes.  She  understood.  Things  she  had  never  com 
prehended  and  had  not  expected  to  comprehend  ex 
plained  themselves  with  comparative  clearness.  He 
proceeded  with  a  certain  hard  distinctness. 

"The  thing  which  grips  me  most  strongly  is  that  this 
one — who  is  one  of  those  who  have  work  before  them — 
shall  not  be  handicapped.  He  shall  not  begin  life 
manacled  and  shamed  by  illegitimacy.  He  shall  begin 
it  with  the  background  of  all  his  father  meant  to  give 
him.  The  law  of  England  will  not  believe  in  his  claims 
unless  they  can  be  proven.  She  can  prove  nothing.  I 
can  prove  nothing  for  her.  If  she  had  been  a  little 
female  costermonger  she  would  have  demanded  her 
'marriage  lines'  and  clung  to  them  fiercely.  She  would 
have  known  that  to  be  able  to  flaunt  them  in  the  face 
of  argument  was  indispensable." 

"She  probably  did  not  know  that  there  existed  such 
documents,"  the  Duchess  said.  "Neither  of  the  pair 
knew  anything  for  the  time  but  that  they  were  wild 
with  love  and  were  to  be  torn  apart. " 

"Therefore,"  he  said  with  distinctness  even  dearer 


154  BOBIJST 

and  harder,  "she  must  possess  indisputable  documentary 
evidence  of  marriage  before  the  child  is  born — as  soon 
as  possible." 

"Marriage!"  she  hesitated  aghast.  "But  who 
will— «" 

"I,"  he  answered  with  absolute  rigidity.  "It  will  be 
difficult.  It  must  be  secret.  But  if  it  can  be  done — 
when  his  time  comes  the  child  can  look  his  new  world  in 
the  face.  He  will  be  the  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe 
when  it  most  needs  a  strong  fellow  who  has  no  cause 
to  fear  anything  and  who  holds  money  and  power  in 
his  hands." 

"You  propose  to  suggest  that  she  shall  marry  you?" 
she  put  it  to  him. 

"Yes.  It  will  be  the  devil's  own  job,"  he  answered. 
"She  has  not  begun  to  think  of  the  child  yet — and  she 
has  abhorred  me  all  her  life.  To  her  the  world  means 
nothing.  She  does  not  know  what  it  can  do  to  her 
and  she  would  not  care  if  she  did.  Donal  was  her 
world  and  he  is  gone.  But  you  and  I  know  what  she 
does  not." 

"So  this  is  what  you  have  been  thinking  ?"  she  said. 
It  was  indeed  an  unarchaic  point  of  view.  But  even 
as  she  heard  him  she  realised  that  it  was  the  almost  in 
evitable  outcome — not  only  of  what  was  at  the  moment 
happening  to  the  threatened  and  threatening  world,  but 
of  his  singularly  secretive  past — of  all  the  things  he 
had  hidden  and  also  of  all  the  things  he  had  professed 
not  to  hide  but  had  baffled  people  with. 

"Since  the  morning  Redcliff  dropped  his  bomb  I  have 
not  been  able  to  think  of  much  else,"  he  said.  "It  was 
a  bomb,  I  own.  Neither  you  nor  I  had  reason  for  a 
shadow  of  suspicion.  My  mind  has  a  trick  of  dragging 
back  to  me  a  memory  of  a  village  girl  who  was  left  as 


ROBIN  155 

— as  she  is.  She  said  her  lover  had  married  her — 
but  he  went  away  and  never  canie  back.  The  village 
she  lived  in  was  a  few  miles  from  Coombe  Keep  and  she 
gave  birth  to  a  boy.  His  childhood  must  have  been  a 
sort  of  hell.  When  other  boys  had  rows  with  him 
they  used  to  shout  'Bastard'  after  him  in  the  street. 
He  had  a  shifty,  sickened  look  and  when  he  died  of 
measles  at  seven  years  old  no  doubt  he  was  glad  of  it. 
He  used  to  run  crying  to  his  wretched  mother  and  hide 
his  miserable  head  in  her  apron." 

"It  sounds  unendurable,"  the  Duchess  said  sharply. 

"I  can  defy  the  world  as  she  cannot,"  he  said  with 
dangerous  calm.  "I  can  provide  money  for  her.  She 
may  be  hidden  away.  But  only  one  thing  will  save  her 
child — Donal's  child — from  being  a  sort  of  outcast 
and  losing  all  he  should  possess — a  quick  and  quiet 
marriage  which  will  put  all  doubt  out  of  the  question." 

"And  you  know  perfectly  well  what  the  general  opin 
ion  will  be  with  regard  to  yourself  ?" 

"Damned  well.  A  debauched  old  degenerate  marry 
ing  the  daughter  of  his  mistress  because  her  eighteen 
years  attracts  his  vicious  decrepitude.  My  absolute 
indifference  to  that,  may  I  say,  can  not  easily  be 
formulated.  She  shall  be  spared  as  much  as  possible. 
The  thing  can  be  kept  secret  for  years.  She  can  live 
in  entire  seclusion.  No  one  need  be  told  until  I  am 
dead — or  until  it  is  necessary  for  the  boy's  sake.  By 
that  time  perhaps  changes  in  opinion  will  have  taken 
place.  But  now — as  is  the  cry  of  the  hour — there  is 
no  time.  She  said  that  Donal  said  it  too."  He  stood 
still  for  a  few  moments  and  looked  at  the  floor.  "But 
as  I  said,"  he  terminated,  "it  will  be  the  devil's  own 
job.  When  I  first  speak  to  her  about  it — she  will  almost 
be  driven  mad." 


CHAPTEK  XIX 

ROBIN  had  spent  the  night  at  the  cottage  and 
Mrs.  Bennett  had  been  very  good  to  her.     They 
had  sat  by  the  fire  together  for  a  long  time  and 
had  talked  of  the  dead  boys  on  the  battlefield,  while 
Robin's  head  had  rested  against  the  old  fairy  woman's 
knee  and  the  shrivelled  hand  had  stroked  and  patted  her 
tremulously.     It  had  been  nearing  dawn  when  the  girl 
went  to  bed  and  at  the  last  Mrs.  Bennett  had  held  on 
to  her  dress  and  asked  her  a  pleading  question. 

"Isn't  there  anything  you'd  like  me  to  do  for  you 
— anything  on  earth,  Miss,  dear  ?  Sometimes  there's 
things  an  old  woman  can  do  that  young  ones  can't.  If 
there  was  anything  you'd  like  to  tell  me  about — that  I 
could  keep  private — ?  It'd  be  as  safe  with  me  as  if 
I  was  a  dumb  woman.  And  it  might  just  happen  that 
— me  being  so  old — I  might  be  a  help  some  way."  She 
was  giving  her  her  chance,  as  in  the  course  of  her  long 
life  she  had  given  it  to  other  poor  girls  she  loved  less. 
One  had  to  make  ways  and  open  gates  for  them. 

But  Robin  only  kissed  her  as  lovingly  as  a  child. 

"I  don't  know  what  is  going  to  happen  to  me,"  she 
said.  "I  can't  think  yet.  I  may  want  to  ask  you  to 
let  me  come  here — if — if  I  am  frightened  and  don't 
know  what  to  do.  I  know  you  would  let  me  come  and 
— talk  to  you—?" 

The  old  fairy  woman  almost  clutched  her  in  enfold 
ing  arms.  Her  answer  was  a  hoarse  and  trembling 
whisper. 

156 


KOBIN  157 

"You  come  to  me,  my  poor  pretty,"  she  said.  "You 
come  to  me  day  or  night — whatsoever.  I'm  not  so  old 
but  what  I  can  do  anything — you  want  done." 

The  railroad  journey  back  to  London  seemed  un 
naturally  long  because  her  brain  began  to  work  when 
she  found  herself  half  blindly  gazing  at  the  country 
swiftly  flying  past  the  carriage  window.  Perhaps  the 
anxiousness  in  Mrs.  Bennett's  face  had  wakened  thought 
in  connecting  itself  with  Lord  Coombe's  words  and 
looks  in  the  wood. 

When  the  door  of  the  house  in  Eaton  Square  opened 
for  her  she  was  conscious  of  shrinking  from  the  sym 
pathetic  eyes  of  the  war-substituted  woman-servant  who 
was  the  one  who  had  found  her  lying  on  the  landing. 
She  knew  that  her  face  was  white  and  that  her  eyelids 
were  stained  and  heavy  and  that  the  woman  saw  them 
and  was  sorry  for  her. 

The  mountain  climb  of  the  stairs  seemed  long  and 
steep  but  she  reached  her  room  at  last  and  took  off  her 
hat  and  coat  and  put  on  her  house  dress.  She  did  it 
automatically  as  if  she  were  going  downstairs  to  her 
work,  as  though  there  had  been  no  break  in  the  order 
of  her  living. 

But  as  she  was  fastening  the  little  hooks  and  buttons 
her  stunned  brain  went  on  with  the  thought  to  which 
it  had  begun  to  awaken  in  the  train.  Since  the  hour 
when  she  had  fallen  unconscious  on  the  landing  she  had 
not  seemed  to  think  at  all.  She  had  only  felt  things 
which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  real  world. 

There  was  a  fire  in  the  grate  and  when  the  last  button 
was  fastened  she  sat  down  on  a  seat  before  it  and  looked 
into  the  redness  of  the  coals,  her  hands  loosely  clasped 
on  her  knee.  She  sat  there  for  several  minutes  and 
then  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  slowly  round  the 


158  ROBIN" 

room.  She  did  it  because  she  was  impelled  by  a  sense 
of  its  emptiness — by  the  fact  that  she  was  quite  alone 
in  it.  There  was  only  herself — only  Robin  in  it. 

That  was  her  first  feeling — the  aloneness — and  then 
she  thought  of  something  else.  She  seemed  to  feel 
again  the  hand  of  Lord  Coombe  on  her  shoulder  when 
he  held  her  back  in  the  darkened  wood  and  she  could 
hear  his  almost  whispered  words. 

"In  this  Wood — even  now — there  is  Something  which 
must  be  saved  from  suffering.  It  is  helpless — it  is 
blameless.  It  is  not  you — it  is  not  Donal — God  help  it." 

Then  she  was  not  alone — even  as  she  sat  in  the  empti 
ness  of  the  room.  She  put  up  her  hands  and  covered  her 
face  with  them. 

"What — will  happen  ?"  she  murmured.  But  she  did 
not  cry. 

The  deadliness  of  the  blow  which  had  stupefied  her 
still  left  her  barely  conscious  of  earthly  significances. 
But  something  of  the  dark  mistiness  was  beginning  to 
lift  slowly  and  reveal  to  her  vague  shadows  and  shapes, 
as  it  were.  If  no  one  would  believe  that  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Donal,  then  people  would  think  that  she  had 
been  the  kind  of  girl  who  is  sent  away  from  decent 
houses,  if  she  is  a  servant,  and  cut  off  in  awful  dis 
grace  from  her  family  and  never  spoken  to  again,  if  she 
belongs  to  the  upper  classes.  Books  and  Benevolent 
Societies  speak  of  her  as  "fallen"  and  "lost."  Her 
vision  of  such  things  was  at  once  vague  and  primitive. 
It  took  the  form  of  pathetic  fictional  figures  or  memories 
of  some  hushed  rumour  heard  by  mere  chance,  rather 
than  of  anything  more  realistic.  She  dropped  her 
hands  upon  her  lap  and  looked  at  the  fire  again. 

"Now  I  shall  be  like  that,"  she  said  listlessly.     "And 


ROBIN  159 

it  does  not  matter.  Donal  knew.  And  I  do  not  care 
— I  do  not  care." 

"The  Duchess  will  send  me  away,"  she  whispered 
next.  "Perhaps  she  will  send  me  away  to-day.  Where 
shall  I  go!"  The  hands  on  her  lap  began  to  tremble 
and  she  suddenly  felt  cold  in  spite  of  the  fire.  The 
sound  of  a  knock  on  the  door  made  her  start  to  her  feet. 
The  woman  who  had  looked  sorry  for  her  when  she  came 
in  had  brought  a  message. 

"Her  grace  wishes  to  see  you,  Miss/'  she  said. 

"Thank  you,"  Robin  answered. 

After  the  servant  had  gone  away  she  stood  still  a 
moment  or  so. 

"Perhaps  she  is  going  to  tell  me  now,"  she  said  to 
the  empty  room- 


aspects  of  her  face  rose  before  the  Duchess  as 
the  girl  entered  the  room  where  she  waited  for  her  with 
Lord  Coombe.  One  was  that  which  had  met  her  glance 
when  Mademoiselle  Valle  had  brought  her  charge  on 
her  first  visit.  She  recalled  her  impression  of  the 
childlikeness  which  seemed  all  the  dark  dew  of  ap 
pealing  eyes,  which  w^rp  like  a  young  doe's  or  a  bird's 
rather  than  a  girl"  Jhe  other  was  the  star-like 
radiance  of  joy  which  had  swept  down  the  ballroom 
in  Donal's  arms  with  dancing  whirls  and  swayings  and 
pretty  swoops.  About  them  had  laughed  and  swirled 
the  boys  now  lying  dead  under  the  heavy  earth  of 
Flemish  fields.  And  Donal — ! 

This  face  looked  small  and  almost  thin  and  younger 
than  ever.  The  eyes  were  like  those  of  a  doe  who  was 
lost  and  frightened — as  if  it  heard  quite  near  it  the 


160  ROBIN 

baying  of  hounds,  but  knew  it  could  not  get  away. 

She  hesitated  a  moment  at  the  door. 

"Come  here,  my  dear,"  the  Duchess  said. 

Lord  Coombe  stood  by  a  chair  he  had  evidently 
placed  for  her,  but  she  did  not  sit  down  when  she 
reached  it.  She  hesitated  again  and  looked  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"Did  you  send  for  me  to  tell  me  I  must  go  away?" 
she  said. 

"What  do  you  mean,  child?"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Sit  down,"  Lord  Coombe  said  and  spoke  in  an  under 
tone  rapidly.  "She  thinks  you  mean  to  turn  her  out 
of  the  house  as  if  she  were  a  kitchen-maid." 

Eobin  sat  down  with  her  listless  small  hands  clasped 
in  her  lap. 

"Nothing  matters  at  all,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  know 
what  to  do." 

"There  is  a  great  deal  to  do,"  the  Duchess  said  to 
her  and  she  did  not  speak  as  if  she  were  angry.  Her 
expression  was  not  an  angry  one.  She  looked  as  if 
she  were  wondering  at  something  and  the  wondering 
was  almost  tender. 

"We  know  what  to  do.  But  it  must  be  done  without 
delay,"  said  Lord  Coombe  and  his  voice  reminded  her 
of  Mersham  Wood. 

"Come  nearer  to  me.  Come  quite  close.  I  want — " 
the  Duchess  did  not  explain  what  she  wanted  but  she 
pointed  to  a  small  square  ottoman  which  would  place 
Robin  almost  at  her  knee.  Her  own  early  training 
had  been  of  the  statelier  Victorian  type  and  it  was  not 
easy  for  her  to  deal  freely  with  outward  expression  of 
emotion.  And  here  emotion  sprang  at  her  throat,  so 
to  speak,  as  she  watched  this  childish  thing  with  the 
frightened  doe's  eyes.  The  girl  had  been  an  inmate 


EOBIN  161 

of  her  house  for  months ;  she  had  heen  kind  to  her  and 
had  become  fond  of  her,  but  they  had  never  reached 
even  the  borders  of  intimacy. 

And  yet  emotion  had  seized  upon  her  and  they  were  in 
the  midst  of  strange  and  powerful  drama. 

Eobin  did  as  she  was  told.  It  struck  the  Duchess 
that  she  always  did  as  she  was  told  and  she  spoke  to 
her  hoping  that  her  voice  was  not  ungentle. 

"Don't  look  at  me  as  if  you  were  afraid.  We  are 
going  to  take  care  of  you,"  she  said. 

But  the  doe's  eyes  were  still  great  with  hopeless  fear- 
fulness. 

aLord  Coombe  said — that  no  one  would  believe  me," 
Robin  faltered.  "He  thought  I  was  not  married  to 
Donal.  But  I  was — I  was.  I  wanted  to  be  married 
to  him.  I  wanted  to  do  everything  he  wanted  me 
to  do.  We  loved  each  other  so  much.  And  we  were 
afraid  every  one  would  be  angry.  And  so  many  were 
killed  every  day — and  before  he  was  killed — Oh !"  with 
a  sharp  little  cry,  "I  am  glad — I  am  glad!  What 
ever  happens  to  me  I  am  glad  I  was  married  to  him  be 
fore  he  was  killed!" 

"You  poor  children !"  broke  from  the  Duchess.  ''You 
poor — poor  mad  young  things!"  and  she  put  an  arm 
about  Eobin  because  the  barrier  built  by  lack  of  in 
timacy  was  wholly  overthrown. 

Eobin  trembled  all  over  and  looked  up  in  her  face. 

"I  may  begin  to  cry,"  she  quavered.  "I  do  not  want 
to  trouble  you  by  beginning  to  cry.  I  must  not." 

"Cry  if  you  want  to  cry,"  the  Duchess  answered. 

"It  will  be  better,"  said  Lord  Coombe,  "if  you  can 
keep  calm.  It  is  necessary  that  you  should  be  calm 
enough  to  think — and  understand.  Will  you  try?  It 
is  for  DonaPs  sake." 


162  KOBIN 

"I  will  try,"  she  answered,  but  her  amazed  eyes 
still  yearningly  wondered  at  the  Duchess.  Her  arm 
had  felt  almost  like  Dowie's. 

''Which  of  us  shall  begin  to  explain  to  her?"  the 
Duchess  questioned. 

''Will  you  ?     It  may  be  better." 

They  were  going  to  take  care  of  her.  She  was  not 
to  be  turned  into  the  street — though  perhaps  if  she  were 
turned  into  the  street  without  money  she  would  die 
somewhere — and  that  would  not  matter  because  she 
would  be  thankful. 

The  Duchess  took  one  of  her  hands  and  held  it  on  her 
knee.  She  looked  kind  still  but  she  was  grave. 

"Do  not  be  frightened  when  I  tell  you  that  most 
people  will  not  believe  what  you  say  about  your  mar 
riage/'  she  said.  "That  is  because  it  is  too  much  like 
the  stories  other  girls  have  told  when  they  were  in 
trouble.  It  is  an  easy  story  to  tell  when  a  man  is 
dead.  And  in  Donal's  case  so  much  is  involved  that 
the  law  would  demand  proofs  which  could  not  be  denied. 
Donal  not  only  owned  the  estate  of  Braemarnie,  but 
he  would  have  been  the  next  Marquis  of  Coombe.  You 
have  not  remembered  this  and — "  more  slowly  and  with 
a  certain  watchful  care — "you  have  been  too  unhappy 
and  ill — you  have  not  had  time  to  realise  that  if  Donal 
has  a  son — " 

She  heard  Robin's  caught  breath. 

"What  his  father  would  have  inherited  he  would 
inherit  also.  Braemarnie  would  be  his  and  in  his  turn 
he  would  be  the  Marquis  of  Coombe.  It  is  because  of 
these  important  things  that  it  would  be  said  that  it 
would  be  immensely  to  your  interest  to  insist  that  you 
were  married  to  Donal  Muir  and  the  law  would  not 
allow  of  any  shade  of  doubt." 


ROBIN  163 

"People  would  think  I  wanted  the  money  and  the 
castles — for  myself?"  Robin  said  blankly. 

"They  would  think  that  if  you  were  a  dishonest 
woman — you  wanted  all  you  could  get.  Even  if  you 
were  not  actually  dishonest  they  would  see  you  would 
want  it  for  your  son.  You  might  think  it  ought  to 
be  his — whether  his  father  had  married  you  or  not. 
Most  women  love  their  children." 

Robin  sat  very  still.  The  stunned  brain  was  slowly 
working  for  itself. 

"A  child  whose  mother  seems  bad — is  very  lonely," 
she  said. 

"It  is  not  likely  to  have  many  friends." 

"It  seems  to  belong  to  no  one.  It  must  be  unhappy. 
If — Donal's  mother  had  not  been  married — even  he 
would  have  been  unhappy." 

No  one  made  any  reply. 

"If  he  had  been  poor  it  would  have  made  it  even 
worse.  If  he  had  belonged  to  nobody  and  had  been 
poor  too — !  How  could  he  have  borne  it !" 

Lord  Coombe  took  the  matter  up  gently,  as  it  were 
removing  it  from  the  Duchess'  hands. 

"But  he  had  everything  he  wished  for  from  his  birth," 
he  said.  "He  was  always  happy.  I  like  to  remember 
the  look  in  his  eyes.  Thank  God  for  it !" 

"That  beautiful  look!"  she  cried.  "That  beautiful 
laughing  look — as  if  all  the  world  were  joyful !" 

"Thank  God  for  it,"  Coombe  said  again.  "I  once 
knew  a  wretched  village  boy  who  had  no  legal  father 
though  his  mother  swore  she  had  been  married.  His 
eyes  looked  like  a  hunted  ferret's.  It  was  through  be 
ing  shamed  and  flouted  and  bullied.  The  village  lads 
used  to  shout  'Bastard'  after  him." 

It  was  then  that  the  baying  of  the  hounds  suddenly 


164:  ROBIN 

seemed  at  hand.  The  large  eyes  quailed  before  the 
stark  emptiness  of  the  space  they  gazed  into. 

"What  shall  I  do— what  shall  I  do?"  Eobin  said 
and  having  said  it  she  did  not  know  that  she  turned  to 
Lord  Coomhe. 

"You  must  try  to  do  what  we  tell  you  to  do — even  if 
you  do  not  wish  to  do  it,"  he  said.  "It  shall  be  made  as 
little  difficult  for  you  as  is  possible." 

The  expression  of  the  Duchess  as  she  looked  on  and 
heard  was  a  changing  one  because  her  mind  included  so 
many  aspects  of  the  singular  situation.  She  had 
thought  it  not  unlikely  that  he  would  do  something 
unusual.  Could  anything  much  more  unusual  have 
been  provided  than  that  a  man,  who  had  absolute 
splendour  of  rank  and  wealth  to  offer,  should  for  strange 
reasons  of  his  own  use  the  tact  of  courts  and  the  fine 
astuteness  of  diplomatists  in  preparing  the  way  to  offer 
marriage  to  a  penniless,  friendless  and  disgraced  young 
"companion"  in  what  is  known  as  "trouble"  ?  It  was 
because  he  was  himself  that  he  understood  what  he  was 
dealing  with — that  splendour  and  safety  would  hold 
no  lure,  that  protection  from  disgrace  counted  as 
nothing,  that  only  one  thing  had  existence  and  mean 
ing  for  her.  And  even  as  this  passed  through  her 
mind,  Robin's  answer  repeated  it. 

"I  will  do  it  whether  it  is  difficult  or  not,"  she  said, 
"but — "  she  actually  got  up  from  her  ottoman  with  a 
quiet  soft  movement  and  stood  before  them — not  a 
(defiant  young  figure,  only  simple  and  elementally 
sweet —  "I  am  not  ashamed,"  she  said.  "I  am  not 
ashamed  and  I  do  not  matter  at  all." 

There  was  that  instant  written  upon  Coombe's  face 
— so  far  at  least  as  his  old  friend  was  concerned — his 
response  to  the  significance  of  this.  It  was  the  elemen- 


ROBIN  165 

tal  thing  which  that  which  moved  him  required ;  it  was 
what  the  generations  and  centuries  of  the  house  of 
Coombe  required — a  primitive  creature  unashamed  and 
with  no  cowardice  or  weak  vanity  lurking  in  its  being. 
The  Duchess  recognised  it  in  the  brief  moment  of  almost 
breathless  silence  which  followed. 

"You  are  very  splendid,  child/'  he  said  after  it, 
"though  you  are  not  at  all  conscious  of  it." 

"Sit  down  again."  The  Duchess  put  out  a  hand 
which  drew  Robin  still  nearer  to  her.  "Explain  to  her 
now,"  she  said. 

Robin's  light  soft  body  rested  against  her  when  it 
obeyed.  It  responded  to  more  than  the  mere  touch  of 
her  hand ;  its  yielding  was  to  something  which  promised 
kindness  and  even  comfort — that  something  which 
Dowie  and  Mademoiselle  had  given  in  those  days  which 
now  seemed  to  have  belonged  to  another  world.  But 
though  she  leaned  against  the  Duchess'  knee  she  still 
lifted  her  eyes  to  Lord  Coombe. 

"This  is  what  I  must  ask  you  to  listen  to,"  he  said. 
"We  believe  what  you  have  told  us  but  we  know  that 
no  one  else  will — without  legal  proof.  We  also  know 
that  some  form  may  have  been  neglected  because  all  was 
done  in  haste  and  ignorance  of  formalities.  You  can 
give  no  clue — the  ordinary  methods  of  investigation  are 
in  confusion  as  the  whole  country  is.  This  is  what 
remains  for  us  to  face.  You  are  not  ashamed,  but  if 
you  cannot  prove  legal  marriage  Donal's  son  will  know 
bitter  humiliation;  he  will  be  robbed  of  all  he  should 
possess — his  life  will  be  ruined.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  without  moving  her  eyes 
from  his  face.  She  seemed  to  him  again  as  he 
stood  before  her  in  the  upper  room  of  Lady  Etynge's 
house  when,  in  his  clear  aloof  voice,  he  had  told  her 


166  ROBIN 

that  he  had  come  to  save  her.  He  had  saved  her  then, 
but  now  it  was  not  she  who  needed  saving. 

"There  is  only  one  man  who  can  give  Donal's  child 
what  his  father  would  have  given  him,"  he  went  on. 

"Who  is  he  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  the  man/'  he  answered,  and  he  stood  quite 
still. 

"How — can  you  do  it?"  she  asked  again. 

"I  can  marry  you,"  his  clear,  aloof  voice  replied. 

"You! — You! — You!"  she  only  breathed  it  out — 
but  it  was  a  cry. 

Then  he  held  up  his  hand  as  if  to  calm  her. 

"I  told  you  in  the  wood  that  hatred  was  useless  now 
and  that  your  reason  for  hating  me  had  no  foundation. 
I  know  how  you  will  abhor  what  I  suggest.  But  it 
will  not  be  as  bad  as  it  seems.  You  need  not  even 
endure  the  ignominy  of  being  known  as  the  Marchioness 
of  Coombe.  But  when  I  am  dead  Donal's  son  will  be 
my  successor.  It  will  not  be  held  against  him  that  I 
married  his  beautiful  young  mother  and  chose  to  keep 
the  matter  a  secret.  I  have  long  been  known  as  a  pecu 
liar  person  given  to  arranging  my  affairs  according  to 
my  own  liking.  The  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe" — 
with  an  ironic  twitch  of  the  mouth — "will  have  the 
law  on  his  side  and  will  not  be  asked  for  explanations. 
A  romantic  story  will  add  to  public  interest  in  him. 
If  your  child  is  a  daughter  she  will  be  protected. 
She  will  not  be  lonely,  she  will  have  friends.  She 
will  have  all  the  chances  of  happiness  a  girl  natur 
ally  longs  for— all  of  them.  Because  you  are  her 
mother." 

Robin  rose  and  stood  before  him  as  involuntarily  as 
she  had  risen  before,  but  now  she  looked  different.  Her 


HOEIN  167 

hands  were  wrung  together  and  she  was  the  blanched 
embodiment  of  terror.  She  remembered  things  Frau- 
lein  Hirsh  had  said. 

"I  could  not  marry  you — if  I  were  to  be  killed  be 
cause  I  didn't/'  was  all  she  could  say.  Because 
marriage  had  meant  only  Donal  and  the  dream,  and 
being  saved  from  the  world  this  one  man  had  represented 
to  her  girl  mind. 

"You  say  that  because  you  have  no  doubt  heard  that 
it  has  been  rumoured  that  I  have  a  depraved  old  man's 
fancy  for  you  and  that  I  have  always  hoped  to  marry 
you.  That  is  as  false  as  the  other  story  I  denied.  I 
am  not  in  love  with  you  even  in  an  antediluvian  way. 
You  would  not  marry  me  for  your  own  sake.  That 
goes  without  saying.  But  I  will  repeat  what  I  said  in 
the  Wood  when  you  told  me  you  would  believe  me. 
There  is  Something — not  you — not  Donal — to  be  saved 
from  suffering.'' 

"That  is  true,"  the  Duchess  said  and  put  out  her  hand 
as  before.  "And  there  is  something  longer  drawn  out 
and  more  miserable  than  mere  dying — a  dreary  outcast 
sort  of  life.  We  know  more  about  such  things  than  you 
do." 

"You  may  better  comprehend  my  action  if  I  add  a 
purely  selfish  reason  for  it,"  Coombe  went  on.  "I  will 
give  you  one.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  the  last  Marquis  of 
Coombe." 

He  took  from  the  table  a  piece  of  paper.  He  had 
actually  made  notes  upon  it 

"Do  not  be  alarmed  by  this  formality,"  he  said.  "I 
wish  to  spare  words.  If  you  consent  to  the  performance 
of  a  private  ceremony  you  will  not  be  required  to  see  me 
again  unless  you  yourself  request  it  I  have  a  quiet 


168  EOBIN 

place  in  a  remote  part  of  Scotland  where  you  can  live 
with  Dowie  to  take  care  of  you.  Dowie  can  be  trusted 
and  will  understand  what  I  tell  her.  You  will  be  safe. 
You  will  be  left  alone.  You  will  be  known  as  a  young 
widow.  There  are  young  widows  everywhere." 

Her  eyes  had  not  for  a  moment  left  his.  By  the  time 
he  had  ended  they  looked  immense  in  her  thin  and  white 
small  face.  Her  old  horror  of  him  had  been  founded  on 
a  false  belief  in  things  which  had  not  existed,  but  a 
feeling  which  has  lasted  almost  a  lifetime  has  formed 
for  itself  an  atmosphere  from  whose  influence  it  is  not 
easy  to  escape.  And  he  stood  now  before  her  looking 
as  he  had  always  looked  when  she  had  felt  him  to  be  the 
finely  finished  embodiment  of  evil.  But — 

"You  are — doing  it — for  Donal,"  she  faltered. 

"You  yourself  would  be  doing  it  for  Donal,"  he  an 
swered. 

"Yes.     And— I  do  not  matter." 

"Donal's  wife  and  the  mother  of  Donal's  boy  or  girl 
matters  very  much,"  he  gave  back  to  her.  He  did  not 
alter  the  impassive  aloofness  of  his  manner,  knowing 
that  it  was  better  not  to  do  so.  An  astute  nerve 
specialist  might  have  used  the  same  method  with  a 
patient. 

There  was  a  moment  or  so  of  silence  in  which  the 
immense  eyes  gazed  before  her  almost  through  him — 
piteously. 

"I  will  do  anything  I  am  told  to  do,"  she  said  at  last. 
After  she  had  said  it  she  turned  and  looked  at  the 
Duchess. 

The  Duchess  held  out  both  her  hands.  They  were 
held  so  far  apart  that  it  seemed  almost  as  if  they  were 
her  arms.  Robin  swept  towards  the  broad  footstool  but 


ROBIN  169 

reaching  it  she  pushed  it  aside  and  knelt  down  laying 
her  face  upon  the  silken  lap  sobbing  soft  and  low. 

"All    the    world    is    covered    with    dead — beautiful 
boys !"  her  sobbing  said.  "All  alone  and  dead — dead !" 


CHAPTER  XX 

NO  immediate  change  was  made  in  her  life  during 
the  days  that  followed.  She  sat  at  her  desk, 
writing  letters-,  referring  to  notes  and  lists  and 
answering  questions  as  sweetly  and  faithfully  as 
she  had  always  done  from  the  first.  She  tried  to 
remember  every  detail  and  she  also  tried  to  keep 
before  her  mind  that  she  mu'st  not  let  people 
guess  that  she  was  thinking  of  other  things — or 
rather  trying  not  to  think  of  them.  It  was  as  though 
she  stood  guard  over  a  dark  background  of  thought,  of 
which  others  must  know  nothing.  It  was  a  back 
ground  which  belonged  to  herself  and  which 
would  always  be  there.  Sometimes  when  she  lifted  her 
eyes  she  found  the  Duchess  looking  at  her  and  then  she 
realised  that  the  Duchess  knew  it  was  there  too. 

She  began  to  notice  that  almost  everybody  looked  at 
her  in  a  kindly  slightly  troubled  way.  Very  important 
matrons  and  busy  excited  girls  who  ran  in  and  out  on 
errands  had  the  same  order  of  rather  evasive  glance. 

"You  have  no  cough,  my  dear,  have  you  ?"  more  than 
one  amiable  grand  lady  asked  her. 

"]STo,  thank  you — none  at  all,"  Robin  answered  and 
she  was  nearly  always  patted  on*  the  shoulder  as  her 
questioner  left  her. 

Kathryn  sitting  by  her  desk  one  morning,  watching 
her  as  she  wrote  a  note,  suddenly  put  her  hand  out  and 
stopped  her. 

170 


ROBIN  171 

"Let  me  look  at  your  wrist,  Robin,"  she  said  and  she 
took  it  between  her  fingers. 

"Oh!  What  a  little  wrist!"  she  exclaimed.  "I— I 
am  sure  Grandmamma  has  not  seen  it.  Grandmam 
ma — "  aloud  to  the  Duchess,  "Have  you  seen  Robin's 
wrist  ?  It  looks  as  if  it  would  snap  in  two." 

There  were  only  three  or  four  people  in  the  room  and 
they  were  all  intimates  and  looked  interested. 

"It  is  only  that  I  am  a  little  thin,"  said  Robin. 
"Everybody  is  thinner  than  usual.  It  is  nothing." 

The  Duchess'  kind  look  somehow  took  in  those  about 
her  in  her  answer. 

"You  are  too  thin,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "I  must  tell 
you  frankly,  Kathryn,  that  you  will  be  called  upon  to 
take  her  place.  I  am  going  to  send  her  away  into  the 
wilds.  The  War  only  ceases  for  people  who  are  sent 
into  wild  places.  Dr.  Redcliff  is  quite  fixed  in  that 
opinion.  People  who  need  taking  care  of  must  be  liter 
ally  hidden  away  in  corners  where  war  vibrations  can 
not  reach  them.  He  has  sent  Emily  Clare  away  and 
even  her  friends  do  not  know  where  she  is." 

Later  in  the  day  Lady  Lothwell  came  and  in  the 
course  of  a  few  minutes  drew  near  to  her  mother  and 
sat  by  her  chair  rather  closely.  She  spoke  in  a 
lowered  voice. 

"I  am  so  glad,  mamma  darling,  that  you  are  going  to 
send  poor  little  Miss  Lawless  into  retreat  for  a  rest 
cure,"  she  began.  "It's  so  tactless  to  continually  chivy 
people  about  their  health,  but  I  own  that  I  can  scarcely 
resist  saying  to  the  child  every  time  I  see  her,  'Are 
you  any  better  today  ?'  or,  'Have  you  any  cough  ?'  or, 
'How  is  your  appetite  ?'  I  have  not  wanted  to  trouble 
you  about  her  but  the  truth  is  we  all  find  ourselves  talk 
ing  her  over.  The  point  of  her  chin  is  growing  actually 


172  ROBIN 

sharp.     What  is  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  doing?"  curtly. 

"Giving  dinners  and  bridge  parties  to  officers  on  leave. 
Robin  never  sees  her." 

"Of  course  the  woman  does  not  want  her  about.  She 
is  too  lovely  for  officers7  bridge  parties,"  rather  sharply 
again. 

"Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless  is  not  the  person  one  would 
naturally  turn  to  for  sympathy  in  trouble.  Illness 
would  present  itself  to  her  mind  as  a  sort  of  outrage." 
The  Duchess  herself  spoke  in  a  low  tone  and  her  eyes 
wandered  for  a  moment  or  so  to  the  corner  where  Robin 
sat  among  her  papers. 

"She  is  a  sensitive  child,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  not 
wanted  to  alarm  her  by  telling  her  she  must  give  up  the 
work  her  heart  is  in.  I  have  seen  for  some  time  that 
she  must  have  an  entire  holiday  and  that  she  must  leave 
London  behind  her  utterly  for  a  while.  Dr.  Redcliff 
knows  of  the  right  remote  sort  of  place  for  her.  It  is 
really  quite  settled.  She  will  do  as  I  advise  her.  She 
is  very  obedient." 

"Mamma,"  murmured  Lady  Loth  well  who  was 
furtively  regarding  Robin  also — and  it  must  be  con 
fessed  with  a  dewy  eye — "I  suppose  it  is  because  I 
have  Kathryn — but  I  feel  a  sort  of  pull  at  my  heart  when 
I  remember  how  the  little  thing  bloomed  only  a  few 
months  ago!  She  was  radiant  with  life  and  joy  and 
youngness.  It's  the  contrast  that  almost  frightens  one. 
Something  has  actually  gone.  Does  Doctor  Redcliff 
think —  Could  she  be  going  to  die?  Somehow," 
with  a  tremulous  breath,  "one  always  thinks  of  death 
now." 

"No!  No!"  the  Duchess  answered.  "Dr.  Redcliff 
says  she  is  not  in  real  danger.  Nourishment  and 
relaxed  strain  and  quiet  will  supply  what  she  needs. 


ROBIN  173 

But  I  will  ask  you,  Millicent,  to  explain  to  people.  I 
am  too  tired  to  answer  questions.  I  realise  that  I  have 
actually  begun  to  love  the  child  and  I  don't  want  to  hear 
amiable  people  continuously  suggesting  the  probability 
that  she  is  in  galloping  consumption — and  proposing 
remedies." 

"Will  she  go  soon  ?"  Lady  Lothwell  asked. 

"As  soon  as  Dr.  R/edclifF  has  decided  between  two 
heavenly  little  places — one  in  Scotland  and  one  in 
Wales.  Perhaps  next  week  or  a  week  later.  Things 
must  be  prepared  for  her  comfort." 

Lady  Lothwell  went  home  and  talked  a  little  to 
Kathryn  who  listened  with  sympathetic  intelligence. 

"It  would  have  been  better  not  to  have  noticed  her 
poor  little  wrists,"  she  said.  "Years  ago  I  believe  that 
telling  people  that  they  looked  ill  and  asking  anxioasly 
about  thoir  symptoms  was  regarded  as  a  form  of  a  Sec 
tion  and  politeness,  but  it  isn't  done  at  all  now." 

"I  know,  mamma !"  Kathryn  returned  remorsefully. 
"But  somehow  there  was  something  so  pathetic  in  her 
little  thin  hand  writing  so  fast — and  the  way  her  eye 
lashes  lay  on  a  sort  of  hollow  of  shadow  instead  of  a 
soft  cheek —  I  took  it  in  suddenly  all  at  once —  And 
I  almost  burst  out  crying  without  intending  to  do  it. 
Oh,  mamma!"  throwing  out  her  hand  to  clutch  her 
mother's,  "Since — since  George — !  I  seem  to  cry  so 
suddenly !  Don't-— don't  you  ?" 

"Yes — yes!"  as  they  slipped  into  each  other's  arms. 
"We  all  do — everybody — everybody !" 

Their  weeping  was  not  loud  but  soft.  Kathryn's 
girl  voice  had  a  low  violin-string  wail  in  it  and  was 
infinitely  touching  in  its  innocent  love  and  pity. 

"It's  because  one  feels  as  if  it  couldn't  be  true — as  if 
he  must  be  somewhere!  George — good  nice  George. 


174  KOBIST 

So  good  looking  and  happy  and  silly  and  dear!  And 
we  played  and  fought  together  when  we  were  children. 
Oh !  To  kill  George— George !" 

When  they  sat  upright  again  with  wet  eyes  and  faces 
Kathryn  added, 

"And  he  was  only  one!  And  that  beautiful  Donal 
Muir  who  danced  with  Eobin  at  Grandmamma's  party ! 
And  people  actually  stared  at  them,  they  looked  so 
happy  and  beautiful."  She  paused  and  thought  a 
moment  "Do  you  know,  mamma,  I  couldn't  help 
believing  he  would  fall  in  love  with  her  if  he  saw  her 
often — and  I  wondered  what  Lord  Coombe  would  think. 
But  he  never  did  see  her  again.  And  now — !  You 
know  what  they  said  about — not  even  finding  him !" 

"It  is  better  that  they  did  not  meet  again.  If  they 
had  it  would  be  easy  to  understand  why  the  poor  girl 
lo^ks  so  ill." 

"Yes,  I'm  glad  for  her  that  it  isn't  that.  That  would 
have  been  much  worse.  Being  sent  away  to  quiet  places 
to  rest  might  have  been  no  good." 

"But  even  as  it  is,  mamma  is  more  anxious  I  am 
sure  than  she  likes  to  own  to  herself.  You  and  I 
must  manage  to  convey  to  people  that  it  is  better  not 
even  to  verge  on  making  fussy  inquiries.  Mamma  has 
too  many  burdens  on  her  mind  to  be  as  calm  as  she  used 
to  be." 

It  was  an  entirely  uncomplicated  situation.  It  be 
came  understood  that  the  Duchess  had  become  much 
attached  to  her  companion  as  a  result  of  her  sweet 
faithfulness  to  her  work.  She  and  Dr.  Redcliff  had 
taken  her  in  charge  and  prepared  for  her  comfort  and 
well-being  in  the  most  complete  manner.  A  few 
months  would  probably  end  in  a  complete  recovery. 
There  were  really  no  special  questions  even  for  the 


KOBLNT  17* 

curious  to  ask  and  no  one  was  curious.  There  was 
no  time  for  curiosity.  So  Robin  disappeared  from  her 
place  at  the  small  desk  in  the  corner  of  the  Duchess' 
sitting  room  and  Kathryn  took  her  place  and  used  her 
pen. 


CHAPTEK  XXI 

IN"  the  front  window  of  one  of  the  row  of  little  flat- 
faced  brick  houses  on  a  narrow  street  in  Man 
chester,  Dowie  sat  holding  Henrietta's  new  baby 
upon  her  lap.  They  were  what  is  known  as  "weekly7' 
houses,  their  rent  being  paid  by  the  week  and  they 
were  very  small.  There  was  a  parlour  about  the  size 
of  a  compartment  in  a  workbox,  there  was  a  still 
smaller  room  behind  it  which  was  called  a  dining  room 
and  there  was  a  diminutive  kitchen  in  which  all  the 
meals  were  eaten  unless  there  was  "company  to  tea" 
which  in  these  days  was  almost  unknown.  Dowie  had 
felt  it  very  small  when  she  first  came  to  it  from  the 
fine  spaces  and  heights  of  the  house  in  Eaton  Square 
and  found  it  seemingly  full  of  very  small  children  and 
a  hysterically  weeping  girl  awaiting  the  impending 
arrival  of  one  who  would  be  smaller  than  the  rest. 

"You'll  never  stay  here,"  said  Henrietta,  crying  and 
clutching  the  untidy  half-buttoned  front  of  her  blouse. 
"You  come  straight  from  duchesses  and  grandeur  and 
you  don't  know  how  people  like  us  live.  How  can  you 
stand  us  and  our  dirt,  Aunt  Sarah  Ann  ?" 

"There  needn't  be  dirt,  Henrietta,  my  girl,"  said 
Dowie  with  quite  uncritical  courage.  "There  wouldn't 
be  if  you  were  yourself,  poor  lass.  I'm  not  a  duchess, 
you  know.  I've  only  been  a  respectable  servant.  And 
I'm  going  to  see  you  through  your  trouble." 

Her  sober,  kindly  capableness  evolved  from  the 
slovenly  little  house  and  the  untended  children,  from 

176 


ROBIN  177 

the  dusty  rooms  and  neglected  kitchen  the  kind  of  order 
and  neatness  which  had  been  plain  to  see  in  Robin's 
more  fortune-favoured  apartment.  The  children  be 
came  as  fresh  and  neat  as  Robin's  nursery  self.  They 
wore  clean  pinafores  and  began  to  behave  tidily  at 
table. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  do  it,  Aunt  Sarah  Ann," 
sighed  Henrietta.  But  she  washed  her  blouse  and  put 
buttons  on  it. 

"It's  just  seeing  things  and  picking  up  and  giving 
a  touch  here  and  there,"  said  Dowie.  She  bought 
little  comforts  almost  every  day  and  Henrietta  was 
cheered  by  cups  of  hot  tea  in  the  afternoon  and  found 
herself  helping  to  prepare  decent  meals  and  sitting 
down  to  them  with  appetite  before  a  clean  tablecloth. 
She  began  to  look  better  and  recovered  her  pleasure 
in  sitting  at  the  front  window  to  watch  the  people  pass 
ing  by  and  notice  how  many  new  black  dresses  and 
bonnets  went  to  church  each  Sunday. 

When  the  new  baby  was  born  there  was  neither 
turmoil  nor  terror. 

"Somehow  it  was  different  from  the  other  times.  It 
seemed  sort  of  natural,"  Henrietta  said.  "And  it's 
so  quiet  to  lie  like  this  in  a  comfortable  clean  bed,  with 
everything  in  its  place  and  nothing  upset  in  the  room. 
And  a  bright  bit  of  fire  in  the  grate — and  a  tidy, 
swept-up  hearth — and  the  baby  breathing  so  soft  in  his 
flannels." 

She  was  a  pretty  thing  and  quite  unfit  to  take  care 
of  herself  even  if  she  had  had  no  children.  Dowie 
knew  that  she  was  not  beset  by  sentimental  views 
of  life  and  that  all  she  wanted  was  a  warm  and 
comfortable  corner  to  settle  down  into.  Some  mas 
culine  creature  would  be  sure  to  begin  to  want  her 


178  KOBIISr 

very  soon.  It  was  only  to  be  hoped  that  youth  and 
flightiness  would  not  descend  upon  her — though  three 
children  might  be  supposed  to  form  a  barrier.  But 
she  had  a  girlish  figure  and  her  hair  was  reddish  gold 
and  curly  and  her  full  and  not  too  small  mouth  was 
red  and  curly  also.  The  first  time  she  went  to  church 
in  her  little  widow's  bonnet  with  the  reddish  gold 
showing  itself  under  the  pathetic  little  white  crepe 
border,  she  was  looked  at  a  good  deal.  Especially  was 
she  looked  at  by  an  extremely  respectable  middle-aged 
widower  who  had  been  a  friend  of  her  dead  husband's. 
His  wife  had  been  dead  six  years,  he  had  a  comfortable 
house  and  a  comfortable  shop  which  had  thriven  greatly 
through  a  connection  with  army  supplies. 

He  came  to  see  Henrietta  and  he  had  the  good  sense 
to  treat  Dowie  as  if  she  were  her  mother.  He  ex 
plained  himself  and  his  circumstances  to  her  and  his 
previous  friendship  for  her  nephew.  He  asked  Dowie 
if  she  objected  to  his  coming  to  see  her  niece  and  bring 
ing  toys  to  the  children. 

"I'm  fond  of  young  ones.  I  wanted  'em  myself.  I 
never  had  any,"  he  said  bluntly.  "There's  plenty 
of  room  in  my  house.  It's  a  cheerful  place  with  good 
solid  furniture  in  it  from  top  to  bottom.  There's  one 
room  we  used  to  call  'the  Nursery'  sometimes  just  for 
a  joke — not  often.  I  choked  up  one  day  when  I  said 
it  and  Mary  Jane  burst  out  crying.  I  could  do  with 


six." 


He  was  stout  about  the  waist  but  his  small  blue  eyes 
sparkled  in  his  red  face  and  Henrietta's  slimness  un- 
romantically  but  practically  approved  of  him. 

One  evening  Dowie  came  into  the  little  parlour  to 
find  her  sitting  upon  his  knee  and  he  restrained  her 
when  she  tried  to  rise  hastily. 


ROBIN  179 

"Don't  get  up,  Hetty,"  he  said.  "Your  Aunt  Sarah 
Ann'll  understand.  We've  had  a  talk  and  she's  a  sensi 
ble  woman.  She  says  she'll  marry  me,  Mrs.  Dowson 
— as  soon  as  it's  right  and  proper." 

"Yes,  we've  had  a  talk,"  Dowie  replied  in  her  nice 
steady  voice.  "He'll  be  a  good  husband  to  you,  Henri 
etta — kind  to  the  children." 

"I'd  be  kind  to  them  even  if  she  wouldn't  marry 
me,"  the  stout  lover  answered.  "I  want  'em.  I've 
told  myself  sometimes  that  I  ought  to  have  been  the 
mother  of  six — not  the  father  but  the  mother.  And 
I'm  not  joking." 

"I  don't  believe  you  are,  Mr.  Jenkinson,"  said  Dowie. 
•x*  •*  *  #•  * 

As  she  sat  before  the  window  in  the  scrap  of  a 
parlour  and  held  the  sleeping  new  baby  on  her  comfort 
able  lap,  she  was  thinking  of  this  and  feeling  glad 
that  poor  Jem's  widow  and  children  were  so  well 
provided  for.  It  would  be  highly  respectable  and 
proper.  The  ardour  of  Mr.  Jenkinson  would  not  inter 
fere  with  his  waiting  until  Henrietta's  weeds  could 
be  decorously  laid  aside  and  then  the  family  would  be 
joyfully  established  in  his  well-furnished  and  decent 
house.  During  his  probation  he  would  visit  Henrietta 
and  bring  presents  to  the  children  and  unostentatiously 
protect  them  all  and  "do"  for  them. 

"They  won't  really  need  me  now  that  Henrietta's 
well  and  cheerful  and  has  got  some  one  to  make  much 
of  her  and  look  after  her,"  Dowie  reflected,  trotting 
the  baby  gently.  "I  can't  help  believing  her  grace 
would  take  me  on  again  if  I  wrote  and  asked  her.  And 
I  should  be  near  Miss  Robin,  thank  God.  It  seems  a 
long  time  since — " 


180  ROBIN 

She  suddenly  leaned  forward  and  looked  up  the  nar 
row  street  where  the  wind  was  blowing  the  dust  about 
and  whirling  some  scraps  of  paper.  She  watched  a 
moment  and  then  lifted  the  baby  and  stood  up  so  that 
she  might  make  more  sure  of  the  identity  of  a  tall  gen 
tleman  she  saw  approaching.  She  only  looked  at  him 
for  a  few  seconds  and  then  she  left  the  parlour  quickly 
and  went  to  the  back  room  where  she  had  been  aware 
of  Mr.  Jenkinson's  voice  rumbling  amiably  along  as  a 
background  to  her  thoughts. 

"Henrietta,"  she  said,  "his  lordship's  coming  down 
the  street  and  he's  coming  here.  I'm  afraid  something's 
happened  to  Miss  Robin  or  her  grace.  Perhaps  I'm 
needed  at  Eaton  Square.  Please  take  the  baby." 

"Give  him  to  me,"  said  Jenkinson  and  it  was 
he  who  took  him  with  quite  an  experienced  air. 

Henrietta  was  agitated. 

"Oh,  my  goodness!  Aunt  Sarah  Ann!  I  feel  all 
shaky.  I  never  saw  a  lord — and  he's  a  marquis,  isn't 
it  ?  I  shan't  know  what  to  do." 

"You  won't  have  to  do  anything,"  answered  Dowie. 
"He'll  only  say  what  he's  come  to  say  and  go  away." 

She  went  out  of  the  room  as  quickly  as  she  had  come 
into  it  because  she  heard  the  sound  of  the  cheap  little 
door  knocker.  She  was  pale  with  anxiety  when  she 
opened  the  door  and  Lord  Coombe  saw  her  troubled 
look  and  understood  its  reason. 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  rather  alarmed  you,  Dowie,"  he 
said  as  he  stepped  into  the  narrow  lobby  and  shook 
hands  with  her. 

"It's  not  bad  news  of  her  grace  or  Miss  Robin  ?"  she 
faltered. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  come  back  to  London. 


KOBIN  181 

Her  grace  is  well  but  Miss  Kobin  needs  you,"  was  what 
he  said. 

But  Dowie  knew  the  words  did  not  tell  her  everything 
she  was  to  hear.  She  took  him  into  the  parlour  for 
which  she  realised  he  was  much  too  tall.  When  she 
discreetly  closed  the  door  after  he  had  entered,  he 
said  seriously,  "Thank  you,"  before  he  seated  himself. 
And  she  knew  that  this  meant  that  they  must  be  undis 
turbed. 

"Will  you  sit  down  too,"  he  said  as  she  stood  a  mo 
ment  waiting  respectfully.  "We  must  talk  together." 

She  took  a  chair  opposite  to  him  and  waited  re 
spectfully  again.  Yes,  he  had  something  grave  on  his 
mind.  He  had  come  to  tell  her  something — to  ask  her 
questions  perhaps — to  require  something  of  her.  Her 
superiors  had  often  required  things  of  her  in  the  course 
of  her  experience — such  things  as  they  would  not  have 
asked  of  a  less  sensible  and  reliable  woman.  And  she 
had  always  been  ready. 

When  he  began  to  talk  to  her  he  spoke  as  he  always 
did,  in  a  tone  which  sounded  unemotional  but  held  one's 
attention.  But  his  face  had  changed  since  she  had 
last  seen  it.  It  had  aged  and  there  was  something  dif 
ferent  in  the  eyes.  That  was  the  War.  Since  the 
War  began  so  many  faces  had  altered. 

During  the  years  in  the  slice  of  a  house  he  had  never 
talked  to  her  very  much.  It  was  with  Mademoiselle 
he  had  talked  and  his  interviews  with  her  had  not 
taken  place  in  the  nursery.  How  was  it  then  that  he 
seemed  to  know  her  so  well.  Had  Mademoiselle  told 
him  that  she  was  a  woman  to  be  trusted  safely  with  any 
serious  and  intimate  confidence — that  being  given  any 
grave  secret  to  shield,  she  would  guard  it  as  silently  and 


182  KOBLNT 

discreetly  as  a  great  lady  might  guard  such  a  thing  if 
it  were  personal  to  her  own  family — as  her  grace  herself 
might  guard  it.  That  he  knew  this  fact  without  a 
shadow  of  doubt  was  subtly  manifest  in  every  word  he 
spoke,  in  each  tone  of  his  voice.  There  was  strange 
dark  trouble  to  face — and  keep  secret — and  he  had 
come  straight  to  her — Sarah  Ann  Dowson — because 
he  was  sure  of  her  and  knew  her  ways.  It  was  her 
ways  he  knew  and  understood — her  steadiness  and  that 
she  had  the  kind  of  manners  that  keep  a  woman  from 
talking  about  things  and  teach  her  how  to  keep  other 
people  from  being  too  familiar  and  asking  questions. 
And  he  knew  what  that  kind  of  manners  was  built  on 
— just  decent  faithfulness  and  honest  feeling.  He 
didn't  say  it  in  so  many  words,  of  course,  but  as  Dowie 
listened  it  was  exactly  as  if  he  said  it  in  gentleman's 
language. 

England  was  full  of  strange  and  cruel  tragedies. 
And  they  were  not  all  tragedies  of  battle  and  sudden 
death.  Many  of  them  were  near  enough  to  seem  even 
worse — if  worse  could  be.  Dowie  had  heard  some  hints 
of  them  and  had  wondered  what  the  world  was  coming 
to.  As  her  visitor  talked  her  heart  began  to  thump 
in  her  side.  Whatsoever  had  happened  was  no  secret 
from  her  grace.  And  together  she  and  his  lordship 
were  going  to  keep  it  a  secret  from  the  world.  Dowie 
could  scarcely  have  told  what  phrase  or  word  at  last 
suddenly  brought  up  before  her  a  picture  of  the  nursery 
in  the  house  in  Mayfair — the  feeling  of  a  warm  soft 
childish  body  pressed  close  to  her  knee,  the  look  of  a 
tender,  dewy-eyed  small  face  and  the  sound  of  a  small 
yearning  voice  saying : 

"I  want  to  kiss  you,  Dowie."     And  so  hearing  it, 


ROBIN  183 

Dowie's  heart  cried  out  to  itself,  "Oh !     Dear  Lord !" 

"It's  Miss  Robin  that  trouble's  come  to,"  involun 
tarily  broke  from  her. 

"A  trouble  she  must  be  protected  in.  She  cannot 
protect  herself."  For  a  few  seconds  he  sat  and  looked 
at  her  very  steadily.  It  was  as  though  he  were  ask 
ing  a  question.  Dowie  did  not  know  she  was  going  to 
rise  from  her  chair.  But  for  some  reason  she  got  up  and 
stood  quite  firmly  before  him.  And  her  good  heart 
went  thump-thump-thump. 

"Your  lordship,"  she  said  and  in  spite  of  the  thump 
ing  her  voice  actually  did  not  shake.  "It  was  one 
of  those  War  weddings.  And  perhaps  he's  dead." 

Then  it  was  Lord  Coombe  who  left  his  chair. 

"Thank  you,  Dowie,"  he  said  and  before  he  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  tiny  room  she  felt  as  if  he 
made  a  slight  bow  to  her. 

She  had  said  something  that  he  had  wished  her  to 
say.  She  had  removed  some  trying  barrier  for  him 
instead  of  obliging  him  to  help  her  to  cross  it  and  per 
haps  stumbling  on  her  way.  She  had  neither  stumbled 
nor  clambered,  she  had  swept  it  away  out  of  his  path 
and  hers.  That  was  because  she  knew  Miss  Robin  and 
had  known  her  from  her  babyhood. 

Though  for  some  time  he  walked  to  and  fro  slowly  as 
he  talked  she  saw  that  it  was  easier  for  him  to  com 
plete  the  relation  of  his  story.  But  as  it  proceeded  it 
was  necessary  for  her  to  make  an  effort  to  recall  her 
self  to  a  realisation  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  parlour 
and  the  narrow  street  outside  the  window — and  she 
was  glad  to  be  assisted  by  the  amiable  rumble  of  Mr. 
Jenkinson's  voice  as  heard  from  the  back  room  when 
she  found  herself  involuntarily  leaning  forward  in  her 


184  EOBIN 

chair,  vaguely  conscious  that  she  was  drawing  short 
breaths,  as  she  listened  to  what  he  was  telling  her. 
The  things  she  was  listening  to  stood  out  from  a  back 
ground  of  unreality  so  startling.  She  was  even  faintly 
tormented  by  shadowy  memories  of  a  play  she  had 
seen  years  ago  at  Drury  Lane.  And  Drury  Lane  in 
cidents  were  of  a  world  so  incongruously  remote  from 
the  house  in  Eaton  Square  and  her  grace's  clever  aqui 
line  ivory  face — and  his  lordship  with  his  quiet  bearing 
and  his  unromantic  and  elderly,  tired  fineness.  And 
yet  he  was  going  to  undertake  to  do  a  thing  which 
was  of  the  order  of  deed  the  sober  everyday  mind 
could  only  expect  from  the  race  of  persons  known  as 
"heroes"  in  theatres  and  in  books.  And  he  was  no 
ticeably  and  wholly  untheatrical  about  it.  His  plans 
were  those  of  a  farseeing  and  practical  man  in  every 
detail.  To  Dowie  the  working  perfection  of  his  prepa 
rations  was  amazing.  They  included  every  contingency 
and  seemed  to  forget  nothing  and  ignore  no  possibility. 
He  had  thought  of  things  the  cleverest  woman  might 
have  thought  of,  he  had  achieved  effects  as  only  a 
sensible  man  accustomed  to  power  and  obedience  could 
have  achieved  them.  And  from  first  to  last  he  kept 
bcrfore  Dowie  the  one  thing  which  held  the  strongest 
appeal.  In  her  helpless  heartbreak  and  tragedy  Robia 
needed  her  as  she  needed  no  one  else  in  the  world. 

"She  is  so  broken  and  weakened  that  she  may  not 
live,"  he  said  in  tke  end.  "No  one  can  care  for  her 
as  you  can." 

"I  can  care  for  her,  poor  lamb.  I'll  come  when 
your  lordship's  ready  for  me,  be  it  soon  or  late." 

"Thank  you,  Dowie,"  he  said  again.  "It  will  be 
soon." 


KOBHST  185 

And  when  he  shook  hands  with  her  and  she  opened 
the  front  door  for  him,  she  stood  and  watched  him, 
thinking  very  deeply  as  he  walked  down  the  street  with 
the  wind-blown  dust  and  scraps  of  paper  whirling 
about  him. 


CHAPTEE  XXII 

IN  little  more  than  two  weeks  Dowie  descended  from 
her  train  in  the  London  station  and  took  a  hansom 
cab  which  carried  her  through  the  familiar  streets  to 
Eaton  Square.  She  was  comforted  somewhat  by  the 
mere  familiarity  of  things — even  by  the  grade  of  smoke 
which  seemed  in  some  way  to  be  different  from  the 
smoke  of  Manchester's  cotton  factory  chimneys — by 
the  order  of  rattle  and  roar  and  rumble,  which  had  a 
homelike  sound.  She  had  not  felt  at  home  in  Manches 
ter  and  she  had  not  felt  quite  at  home  with  Henrietta 
though  she  had  done  her  duty  by  her.  Their  worlds 
had  been  far  apart  and  daily  adjustment  to  circum 
stances  is  not  easy  though  it  may  be  accomplished  with 
out  the  betrayal  of  any  outward  sign.  His  lordship's 
summons  had  come  soon,  as  he  had  said  it  would,  but 
he  had  made  it  possible  for  her  to  leave  in  the  little  house 
a  steady  and  decent  woman  to  take  her  place  when  she 
gave  it  up. 

She  had  made  her  journey  from  the  !N~orth  with  an 
anxiously  heavy  heart  in  her  breast.  She  was  going 
to  "take  on"  a  responsibility  which  included  elements 
previously  quite  unknown  to  her.  She  was  going  to 
help  to  hide  something,  to  live  with  a  strange  secret 
trouble  and  while  she  did  so  must  wear  her  accustomed, 
respectable  and  decorous  manner  and  aspect.  What 
soever  alarmed  or  startled  her,  she  must  not  seem 
to  be  startled  or  alarmed.  As  his  lordship  had  carried 
himself  with  his  usual  bearing,  spoken  in  his  high-bred 

186 


KOBIN  187 

calm  voice  and  not  once  failed  in  the  naturalness  of  bis 
expression — even  when  he  had  told  her  the  whole  strange 
plan — so  she  must  in  any  circumstances  which  arose 
and  in  any  difficult  situation  wear  always  the  aspect 
of  a  well-bred  and  trained  servant  who  knew  nothing 
which  did  not  concern  her  and  did  nothing  which  ordi 
nary  domestic  service  did  not  require  that  she  should 
do.  She  must  always  seem  to  be  only  Sarah  Ann 
Dowson  and  never  forget.  But  delicate  and  unusual 
as  this  problem  was,  it  was  not  the  thing  which  made 
her  heart  heavy.  Several  times  during  her  journey  she 
had  been  obliged  to  turn  her  face  towards  the  window 
of  the  railway  carriage  and  away  from  her  fellow  pas 
sengers  so  that  she  might  very  quickly  and  furtively 
touch  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief  because  she  did 
not  want  any  one  to  see  the  tear  which  obstinately  welled 
up  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  keep  it  back. 

She  had  heard  of  "trouble"  in  good  families,  had 
even  been  related  to  it.  She  knew  how  awful  it  was 
and  what  desperate  efforts  were  made,  what  desperate 
means  resorted  to,  in  the  concealment  of  it.  And  how 
difficult  and  almost  impossible  it  was  to  cope  with  it  and 
how  it  seemed  sometimes  as  if  the  whole  fabric  of 
society  and  custom  combined  to  draw  attention  to  mere 
trifles  which  in  the  end  proved  damning  evidence. 

And  it  was  Miss  Robin  she  was  going  to — her  own 
Miss  Eobin  who  had  never  known  a  child  of  her  own 
age  or  had  a  girl  friend — who  had  been  cut  off  from 
innocent  youth  and  youth's  happiness  and  intimacies. 

"It's  been  one  of  those  poor  mad  young  war  wed 
dings,"  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  "though  no  one  will 
believe  her.  If  she  hadn't  been  so  ignorant  of  life  and 
so  lonely !  But  just  as  she  fell  down  worshipping  that 
dear  little  chap  in  the  Gardens  because  he  was  the 


188  KOBIN 

first  she'd  ever  seen — it's  only  nature  that  the  first 
beautiful  young  thing  her  own  age  that  looked  at 
her  with  love  rising  up  in  him  should  set  it  rising  in 
her — where  God  had  surely  put  it  if  ever  He  put  love 
as  part  of  life  in  any  girl  creature  His  hand  made. 
But  Oh !  I  can  see  no  one  will  believe  her !  The  world's 
heart's  so  wicked.  I  know,  poor  lamb.  Her  Dowie 
knows.  And  her  left  like  this !" 

It  was  when  her  thoughts  reached  this  point  that  the 
tear  would  gather  in  the  corner  of  her  eye  and  would 
have  trickled  down  her  cheek  if  she  had  not  turned  away 
towards  the  window. 

But  above  all  things  she  told  herself  she  must  pre 
sent  only  Dowie's  face  when  she  reached  Eaton  Square. 
There  were  the  servants  who  knew  nothing  and  must 
know  nothing  but  that  Mrs.  Dowson  had  come  to  take 
care  of  poor  Miss  Lawless  who  had  worked  too  hard 
and  was  looking  ill  and  was  to  be  sent  into  the  country 
to  some  retreat  her  grace  had  chosen  because  it  was  far 
enough  away  to  allow  of  her  being  cut  off  from  war 
news  and  work,  if  her  attendants  were  faithful  and 
firm.  Every  one  knew  Mrs.  Dowson  would  be  firm 
and  faithful.  Then  there  were  the  ladies  who  went 
in  and  out  of  the  house  in  these  days.  If  they  saw 
her  by  any  chance  they  might  ask  kind  interested  ques 
tions  about  the  pretty  creature  they  had  liked.  They 
might  inquire  as  to  symptoms,  they  might  ask  where 
she  was  to  be  taken  to  be  nursed.  Dowie  knew  that 
after  she  had  seen  Hobin  herself  she  could  provide 
suitable  symptoms  and  she  knew,  as  she  knew  how  to 
breathe  and  walk,  exactly  the  respectful  voice  and 
manner  in  which  she  could  make  her  replies  and  how 
natural  she  could  cause  it  to  appear  that  she  had 
not  yet  been  told  their  destination — her  grace  being 


ROBIN  189 

still  undecided.  Dowie's  decent  intelligence  knew 
the  methods  of  her  class  and  their  value  when  perfectly 
applied.  A  nurse  or  a  young  lady's  maid  knew  only 
what  she  was  told  and  did  not  ask  questions. 

But  what  she  thought  of  most  anxiously  was  Robin 
herself.  His  lordship  had  given  her  no  instructions. 
Part  of  his  seeming  to  understand  her  was  that  he  had 
seemed  to  be  sure  that  she  would  know  what  to  say 
and  what  to  leave  unsaid.  She  was  glad  of  that  be 
cause  it  left  her  free  to  think  the  thing  over  and  make 
her  own  quiet  plans.  She  drew  more  than  one  tremu 
lous  sigh  as  she  thought  it  out.  In  the  first  place — 
little  Miss  Robin  seemed  like  a  baby  to  her  yet !  Oh, 
she  was  a  baby!  Little  Miss  Robin  just  in  her  teens 
and  with  her  childish  asking  eyes  and  her  soft  childish 
mouth !  Her  a  young  married  lady  and  needing  to  be 
taken  care  of!  She  was  too  young  to  be  married — if 
it  was  ever  so!  And  if  everything  had  been  done  all 
right  and  proper  with  wedding  cake  and  veil,  orange 
blossoms  and  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  she  still 
would  have  been  too  young  and  would  have  looked  almost 
cruelly  like  a  child.  And  at  a  time  such  as  this  Dowie 
would  have  known  she  was  one  to  be  treated  with 
great  delicacy  and  tender  reserve.  But  as  it  was — a 
little  shamed  thing  to  be  hidden  away — to  be  saved 
from  the  worst  of  fates  for  any  girl — with  nothing  in 
her  hand  to  help  her — how  would  it  be  wisest  to  face 
her,  how  could  one  best  be  a  comfort  and  a  help  ? 

How  the  sensible  and  tender  creature  gave  her  heart 
and  brain  to  her  reflections!  How  she  balanced  one 
chance  and  one  emotion  against  another!  Her  con 
clusion  was,  as  Coombe  had  known  it  would  be,  drawn 
from  the  experience  of  practical  wisdom  and  an  affec 
tion  as  deep  as  the  experience  was  broad. 


190  EOBIN 

"She  won't  be  afraid  of  Dowie,"  she  thought,  "if 
it's  just  Dowie  that  looks  at  her  exactly  as  she  always 
did.  In.  her-  little  soul  she  may  be  frightened  to  death 
but  if  it's  only  Dowie  she  sees — not  asking  questions 
or  looking  curious  and  unnatural,  she'll  get  over  it  and 
know  she's  got  something  to  hold  on  to.  What  she 
needs  is  something  she  can  hold  on  to — something  that 
won't  tremble  when  she  does — and  that  looks  at  her  in 
the  way  she  was  used  to  when  she  was  happy  and  safe. 
What  I  must  do  with  her  is  what  I  must  do  with  the 
others — just  look  and  talk  and  act  as  Dowie  always 
did,  however  hard  it  is.  Perhaps  when  we  get  away 
to  the  quiet  place  we're  going  to  hide  in,  she  may  begin 
to  want  to  talk  to  me.  But  not  a  question  do  I  ask  or 
look  until  she's  ready  to  open  her  poor  heart  to  me." 
*  *  *  *  •* 

She  had  herself  well  under  control  when  she  reached 
her  destination.  She  had  bathed  her  face  and  fresh 
ened  herself  with  a  cup  of  hot  tea  at  the  station.  She 
entered  the  house  quite  with  her  usual  manner  and  was 
greeted  with  obvious  welcome  by  her  fellow  servants. 
They  had  missed  her  and  were  glad  to  see  her  again. 
She  reported  herself  respectfully  to  Mrs.  James  in  the 
housekeeper's  sitting  room  and  they  had  tea  again  and 
a  confidential  talk. 

"I'm  glad  you  could  leave  your  niece,  Mrs.  Dowson," 
the  housekeeper  said.  "It's  high  time  poor  little  Miss 
Lawless  was  sent  away  from  London.  She's  not  fit 
for  war  work  now  or  for  anything  but  lying  in  bed  in  a 
quiet  place  where  she  can  get  fresh  country  air  and 
plenty  of  fresh  eggs,  and  good  milk  and  chicken  broth. 
And  she  needs  a  motherly  woman  like  you  to  watch  her 
carefully." 


ROBIN  191 

"Does  she  look  as  delicate  as  all  that?"  said  Dowie 
concernedly. 

"She'll  lie  in  the  graveyard  in  a  few  months  if  some 
thing's  not  done.  I've  seen  girls  look  like  her  before 
this."  And  Mrs.  James  said  it  almost  sharply. 

But  even  with  this  preparation  and  though  Lord 
Coombe  had  spoken  seriously  of  the  state  of  the  girl's 
health,  Dowie  was  not  ready  to  encounter  without  a  fear 
ful  sense  of  shock  what  she  confronted  a  little  later 
when  she  went  to  Robin's  sitting  room  as  she  was 
asked  to. 

When  she  tapped  upon  the  door  and  in  response  to  a 
faint  sounding  "Come  in"  entered  the  pretty  place, 
Robin  rose  from  her  seat  by  the  fire  and  came  towards 
her  holding  out  her  arms. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  came,  Dowie  dear,"  she  said,  "I'm 
so  glad."  She  put  the  arms  close  round  Dowie's  neck 
and  kissed  her  and  held  her  cheek  against  the  comfort 
able  warm  one  a  moment  before  she  let  go.  "I'm 
so  glad,  dear,"  she  murmured  and  it  was  even  as 
she  felt  the  arms  close  about  her  neck  and  the  cheek 
press  hers  that  Dowie  caught  her  breath  and  held  it  so 
that  she  might  not  seem  to  gasp.  They  were  such  thin 
frail  arms,  the  young  body  on  which  the  dress  hung 
loose  was  only  a  shadow  of  the  round  slirnness  which  had 
been  so  sweet. 

But  it  was  when  the  arm  released  her  and  they  stood 
apart  and  looked  at  each  other  that  she  felt  the  shock  in 
full  force  while  Robin  continued  her  greetings. 

"Did  you  leave  Henrietta  and  the  children  quite 
well  ?"  she  was  saying.  "Is  the  new  baby  a  pretty 
one?" 

Dowie  had  not  been  one  of  those  who  had  seen  the 
gradual  development  of  the  physical  change  in  her. 


192  ROBUST 

It  came  upon  her  suddenly.  She  had  left  a  young 
creature  all  softly  rounded  girlhood,  sweet  curves  and 
life  glow  and  bloom.  She  found  herself  holding  a 
thin  hand  and  looking  into  a  transparent,  sharpened 
small  face  whose  eyes  were  hollowed.  The  silk  of  the 
curls  on  the  forehead  had  a  dankness  and  lifelessness 
which  almost  made  her  catch  her  breath  again.  Like 
Mrs.  James  she  herself  had  more  than  once  had  the  ex 
perience  of  watching  young  creatures  slip  into  what  the 
nurses  of  her  day  called  "rapid  decline"  and  she  knew 
all  the  piteous  portents  of  the  early  stages — the  waxen 
transparency  of  sharpened  features  and  the  damp  cling 
ing  hair.  These  two  last  were  to  her  mind  the  most 
significant  of  the  early  terrors. 

And  in  less  than  five  minutes  she  knew  that  the 
child  was  not  going  to  talk  about  herself  and  that  she 
had  been  right  in  making  up  her  own  mind  to  wait. 
Whatsoever  the  strain  of  silence,  there  would  be  no 
speech  now.  The  piteous  darkness  of  her  eye  held  a 
stillness  that  was  heart-breaking.  It  was  a  stillness 
of  such  touching  endurance  of  something  inevitable. 
Whatsoever  had  happened  to  her,  whatsoever  was  going 
to  happen  to  her,  she  would  make  no  sound.  She  would 
outwardly  be  affectionate,  pretty-mannered  Miss  Robin 
just  as  Dowie  herself  would  give  all  her  strength  to  try 
ing  to  seem  to  be  nothing  and  nobody  but  Dowie.  And 
what  it  would  cost  of  effort  to  do  it  well ! 

When  they  sat  down  together  it  was  because  she  drew 
Robin  by  the  thin  little  hand  to  an  easy  chair  and  she 
still  held  the  thin  hand  when  she  sat  near  her. 

"Henrietta's  quite  well,  I'm  glad  to  say,"  she  an 
swered.  "And  the  baby's  a  nice  plump  little  fellow.  I 
left  them  very  comfortable — and  I  think  in  time  Henri 
etta  will  be  married  again." 


KOBIN  193 

"Married  again !"  said  Kobin.     "Again  !" 

"He's  a  nice  well-to-do  man  and  "he's  fond  of  her 
and  he's  fond  of  children.  He's  never  had  any  and 
he's  always  wanted  them." 

"Has  he  ?"  Kobin  murmured.  "That's  very  nice  for 
Henrietta,"  But  there  was  a  shadow  in  her  eyes  which 
was  rather  like  frightened  bewilderment. 

Dowie  still  holding  the  mere  nothing  of  a  hand, 
stroked  and  patted  it  now  and  then  as  she  described 
Mr.  Jenkinson  and  the  children  and  the  life  in  the 
house  in  Manchester.  She  wanted  to  gain  time  and 
commonplace  talk  helped  her. 

"She  won't  be  married  again  until  her  year's  up,"  she 
explained.  "And  it's  the  best  thing  she  could  do — being 
left  a  young  widow  with  children  and  nothing  to  live 
on.  Mr.  Jenkinson  can  give  her  more  than  she's  ever 
had  in  the  way  of  comforts." 

"Did  she  love  poor  Jem  very  much?"  Kobin 
asked. 

"She  was  very  much  taken  with  him  in  her  way  when 
she  married  him,"  Dowie  said.  "He  was  a  cheerful, 
joking  sort  of  young  man  and  girls  like  Henrietta  like 
jokes  and  fun.  But  they  were  neither  of  them  roman 
tic  and  it  had  begun  to  be  a  bit  hard  when  the  children 
came.  She'll  be  very  comfortable  with  Mr.  Jenkinson 
and  being  comfortable  means  being  happy — to  Henri 
etta." 

Then  Kobin  smiled  a  strange  little  ghost  of  a  smile 
— but  there  were  no  dimples  near  it. 

"You  haven't  told  me  that  I  am  thin,  Dowie,"  she 
said*  "I  know  I  am  thin,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  And 
I  am  glad  you  kissed  me  first.  That  made  me  sure  that 
you  were  Dowie  and  not  only  a  dream.  Everything  has 
been  seeming  as  if  it  were  a  dream — everything — my- 


194  EOBIN 

self — everybody — even  you — you!"  And  the  small 
hand  clutched  her  hard. 

A  large  lump  climbed  into  Dowie's  throat  but  she 
managed  it  bravely. 

"It's  no  use  telling  people  they're  thin,"  she  answered 
with  stout  good  cheer.  "It  doesn't  help  to  put  flesh  on 
them.  And  there  are  a  good  many  young  ladies  work 
ing  themselves  thin  in  these  days.  You're  just  one  of 
them  that's  going  to  be  taken  care  of.  I'm  not  a 
dream,  Miss  Eobin,  my  dear.  I'm  just  your  own 
Dowie  and  I'm  going  to  take  care  of  you  as  I  did 
when  you  were  six." 

She  actually  felt  the  bones  of  the  small  hand  as  it 
held  her  own  still  closer.  It  began  to  tremble  because 
Robin  had  begun  to  tremble.  But  though  she  was 
trembling  and  her  eyes  looked  very  large  and  frightened, 
the  silence  was  still  deep  within  them. 

"Yes,"  the  low  voice  faltered,  "you  will  take  care  of 
me.  Thank  you,  Dowie  dear.  I — must  let  people  take 
care  of  me.  I  know  that.  I  am  like  Henrietta." 

And  that  was  all. 


"She's  very  much  changed,  your  grace,"  Dowie  said 
breathlessly  when  she  went  to  the  Duchess  afterwards. 
There  had  been  no  explanation  or  going  into  detail 
but  she  knew  that  she  might  allow  herself  to  be  breath 
less  when  she  stood  face  to  face  with  her  grace.  "Does 
she  cough  ?  Has  she  night  sweats  ?  Has  she  any  ap 
petite  ?" 

"She  does  not  cough  yet,"  the  Duchess  answered, 
but  her  grave  eyes  were  as  troubled  as  Dowie's  own. 
"Doctor  Eedcliff  will  tell  you  everything.  He  will  see 
you  alone.  We  are  sending  her  away  with  you  because 


ROBIN  195 

you  love  her  and  will  know  how  to  take  care  of  her. 
We  are  very  anxious. " 

"Your  grace,"  Dowie  faltered  and  one  of  the  tears 
she  had  forced  hack  when  she  was  in  the  railway  car 
riage  rose  insubordinately  and  rolled  down  her  cheek, 
"just  once  I  nursed  a  young  lady  who — looked  as  she 
does  now.  I  did  my  best  with  all  my  heart,  the  doctors 
did  their  best,  everybody  that  loved  her  did  their  best 
— and  there  were  a  good  many.  We  watched  over  her 
for  six  months." 

"Six  months?"  the  Duchess'  voice  was  an  unsteady 
thing. 

"At  the  end  of  six  months  we  laid  her  away  in  a 
pretty  country  churchyard,  with  flowers  heaped  all 
over  her — and  her  white  little  hands  full  of  them. 
And  she  hadn't — as  much  to  contend  with — as  Miss 
Robin  has." 

And  in  the  minute  of  dead  silence  which  followed 
more  tears  fell.  No  one  tried  to  hold  them  back  and 
some  of  them  were  the  tears  of  the  old  Duchess. 


OHAPTEE  XXIII 

THERE  are  old  and  forgotten  churches  in  over 
grown  corners  of  London  whose  neglected  re 
moteness  suggests  the  possibility  of  any  ecclesias 
tical  ceremony  being  performed  quite  unobserved  ex 
cept  by  the  parties  concerned  in  it.  If  entries  and 
departures  were  discreetly  arranged,  a  baptismal  or  a 
marriage  ceremony  might  take  place  almost  as  in  a  tomb. 
A  dark  wet  day  in  which  few  pass  by  and  such  as  pass 
are  absorbed  in  their  own  discomforts  beneath  their  um 
brellas,  offers  a  curiously  entire  aloofness  of  seclusion. 
In  the  neglected  graveyards  about  them  there  is  no 
longer  any  room  to  bury  any  one  in  the  damp  black 
earth  where  the  ancient  tombs  are  dark  with  mossy 
growth  and  mould,  heavy  broken  slabs  slant  sidewise 
perilously,  sad  and  thin  cats  prowl,  and  from  a  soot- 
blackened  tree  or  so  the  rain  drops  with  hollow,  plash 
ing  sounds. 

The  rain  was  so  plashing  and  streaming  in  rivulets 
among  the  mounds  and  stones  of  the  burial  ground  of 
one  of  the  most  ancient  and  forgotten  looking  of  such 
churches,  when  on  a  certain  afternoon  there  came  to  the 
narrow  soot-darkened  Vicarage  attached  to  it  a  tall, 
elderly  man  who  wished  to  see  and  talk  to  the  Vicar. 

The  Vicar  in  question  was  an  old  clergyman  who  had 
spent  nearly  fifty  years  in  the  silent,  ecclesiastical-at- 
mosphered  small  house.  He  was  an  unmarried  man 
whose  few  relatives  living  in  the  far  North  of  Eng 
land  were  too  poor  and  unenterprising  to  travel  to  Lon- 

196 


ROBIN"  197 

don.  His  days  were  spent  in  unsatisfactory  work  among 
crowded  and  poverty-stricken  human  creatures  before 
whom  he  felt  helpless  because  he  was  an  unpractical 
old  Oxford  bookworm.  He  read  such  services  as  he 
held  in  his  dim  church,  to  empty  pews  and  echoing 
hollowness.  He  was  nevertheless  a  deeply  thinking 
man  who  was  a  gentleman  of  a  scarcely  remembered 
school ;  he  was  a  peculiarly  silent  man  and  of  dignified 
understanding.  Through  the  long  years  he  had  existed 
in  detached  seclusion  in  his  corner  of  his  world  around 
which  great  London  roared  and  swept  almost  unheard 
by  him  in  his  remoteness. 

When  the  visitor's  card  was  brought  to  him  where 
he  sat  in  his  dingy,  book-packed  study,  he  stood — after 
he  had  told  his  servant  to  announce  the  caller — gazing 
dreamily  at  the  name  upon  the  white  surface.  It  was 
a  stately  name  and  brought  back  vague  memories. 
Long  ago — very  long  ago,  he  seemed  to  recall  that  he  had 
slightly  known  the  then  bearer  of  it.  He  himself  had 
been  young  then — quite  young.  The  man  he  had  known 
was  dead  and  this  one,  his  successor,  must  by  this  time 
have  left  youth  behind  him.  What  had  led  him  to 
come? 

Then*  the  visitor  was  shown  into  the  study.  The 
Vicar  felt  that  he  was  a  man  of  singular  suggestions. 
His  straight  build,  his  height,  his  carriage  arrested 
the  attention  and  the  clear  cut  of  his  cold  face  held  it. 
One  of  his  marked  suggestions  was  that  there  was  un 
usual  lack  of  revelation  in  his  rather  fine  almond  eye. 
It  might  have  revealed  much  but  its  intention  was  to 
reveal  nothing  but  courteous  detachment  from  all  but 
well-bred  approach  to  the  demand  of  the  present  mo 
ment. 

"I  think  I  remember  seeing  you  when  you  were  a 


198  BOBIISr 

boy,  Lord  Coombe,"  the  Vicar  said.  "My  father  was 
rector  of  St  Andrews."  St.  Andrews  was  the  Norman- 
towered  church  on  the  edge  of  the  park  enclosing 
Coombe  Keep. 

"I  came  to  you  because  I  also  remembered  that/'  was 
Coombe's  reply. 

Their  meeting  was  a  very  quiet  one.  But  every  in 
cident  of  life  was  quiet  in  the  Vicarage.  Only  low 
sounds  were  ever  heard,  only  almost  soundless  move 
ments  made.  The  two  men  seated  themselves  and 
talked  calmly  while  the  rain  pattered  on  the  window 
panes  and  streaming  down  them  seemed  to  shut  out  the 
world. 

What  the  Vicar  realised  was  that,  since  his  visitor 
had  announced  that  he  had  come  because  he  remembered 
their  old  though  slight  acquaintance,  he  had  obviously 
come  for  some  purpose  to  which  the  connection  formed 
a  sort  of  support  or  background.  This  man,  whose 
modernity  of  bearing  and  externals  seemed  to  separate 
them  by  a  lifetime  of  experience,  clearly  belonged  to 
the  London  which  surrounded  and  enclosed  his  own 
silences  with  civilised  roar  and  the  tumult  of  swift  pass 
ings.  On  the  surface  the  small,  dingy  book-crammed 
study  obviously  held  nothing  this  outer  world  could  re 
quire.  The  Vicar  said  as  much  courteously  and  he 
glanced  round  the  room  as  he  spoke,  gently  smiling. 

"But  it  is  exactly  this  which  brings  me,"  Lord  Coombe 
answered. 

With  great  clearness  and  never  raising  the  note  of 
quiet  to  which  the  walls  were  accustomed,  he  made  his 
explanation.  He  related  no  incidents  and  entered  into 
no  detail.  When  he  had  at  length  concluded  the  pres 
entation  of  his  desires,  his  hearer  knew  nothing  what 
ever,  save  what  was  absolutely  necessary,  of  those  con- 


KOBIN  199 

cerned  in  the  matter.  Utterly  detached  from  all  curi 
osities  as  he  was,  this  crossed  the  Vicar's  mind.  There 
was  a  marriage  ceremony  to  be  performed.  That  only 
the  contracting  parties  should  be  aware  of  its  perform 
ance  was  absolutely  necessary.  That  there  should 
be  no  chance  of  opportunity  given  for  question  or  com 
ment  was  imperative.  Apart  from  this  the  legality  of 
the  contract  was  all  that  concerned  those  entering  into 
it ;  and  that  must  be  assured  beyond  shadow  of  possible 
doubt. 

In  the  half -hidden  and  forgotten  old  church  to  which 
the  Vicarage  was  attached  such  a  ceremony  could  ob 
viously  be  performed,  and  to  an  incumbent  detached 
from  the  outer  world,  as  it  were,  and  one  who  was  ca 
pable  of  comprehending  the  occasional  gravity  of  reasons 
for  silence,  it  could  remain  so  long  as  was  necessary  a 
confidence  securely  guarded. 

"It  is  possible,"  the  Vicar  said  at  the  end  of  the  ex 
planation.  "I  have  performed  the  ceremony  before 
under  somewhat  similar  circumstances." 

A  man  of  less  breeding  and  with  even  normal  curiosi 
ties  might  have  made  the  mistake  of  asking  innocent 
questions.  He  asked  none  except  such  as  related  to 
the  customary  form  of  procedure  in  such  matters.  He 
did  not,  in  fact,  ask  questions  of  himself.  He  was  also 
fully  aware  that  Lord  Coombe  would  have  given  no  an 
swer  to  any  form  of  inquiry.  The  marriage  was  purely 
his  own  singular  affair.  It  was  he  himself  who  chose 
in  this  way  to  be  married — in  a  forgotten  church  in 
whose  shadowy  emptiness  the  event  would  be  as  a  thing 
brought  to  be  buried  unseen  and  unmarked  by  any 
stone,  but  would  yet  be  a  contract  binding  in  the  face 
and  courts  of  the  world  if  it  should  for  any  reason  be 
exhumed. 


200  EOBIN 

When  lie  rose  to  go  and  the  Vicar  rose  with  him;  there 
was  a  moment  of  pause  which  was  rather  curious.  The 
men's  eyes  met  and  for  a  few  moments  rested  upon 
each  other.  The  Vicar's  were  still  and  grave,  but  there 
was  a  growth  of  deep  feeling  in  them.  This  suggested 
a  sort  of  profound  human  reflection. 

Lord  Coombe's  expression  itself  changed  a  shade.  It 
might  perhaps  be  said  that  his  eyes  had  before  this 
moment  scarcely  seemed  to  hold  expression. 

"She  is  very  young,"  he  said  in  an  unusual  voice. 
"In  this — holocaust — she  needs  protection.  I  can  pro 
tect  her." 

"It  is  a  holocaust,"  the  Vicar  said,  " — a  holocaust" 
And  singularly  the  words  seemed  an  answer. 


On  a  morning  of  one  of  London's  dark  days  when  the 
rain  was  again  splashing  and  streaming  in  rivulets 
among  the  mounds  and  leaning  and  tumbling  stones 
of  the  forgotten  churchyard,  there  came  to  the  church 
three  persons  who  if  they  had  appeared  in  more  fre 
quented  edifices  would  have  attracted  some  attention 
without  doubt,  unnoticeably  as  they  were  dressed  and 
inconspicuous  as  was  their  manner  and  bearing. 

They  did  not  all  three  present  themselves  at  the  same 
time.  First  there  appeared  the  tall  elderly  man  who 
had  visited  and  conferred  with  the  Vicar.  He  went 
at  once  to  the  vestry  where  he  spent  some  time  with  the 
incumbent  who  awaited  him. 

Somewhat  later  there  stepped  through  the  little  arched 
doorway  a  respectable  looking  elderly  woman  and  a 
childlike  white-faced  girl  in  a  close  black  frock.  That 
the  church  looked  to  them  so  dark  as  to  be  almost  black 
with  shadows  was  manifest  when  they  found  themselves 


ROBIN  201 

inside  peering  into  the  dimness.  The  outer  darkness 
seemed  to  have  crowded  itself  through  the  low  doorway 
to  fill  the  groined  arches  with  gloom. 

" Where  must  we  go  to,  Dowie?"  Robin  whispered 
holding  to  the  warm,  stout  arm. 

"Don't  be  timid,  my  dearie,"  Dowie  whispered  back. 
"His  lordship  will  be  ready  for  us  now  we've  come." 

His  lordship  was  ready.  He  came  forward  to  meet 
them  and  when  he  did  so,  Robin  knew — though  he 
seemed  to  be  part  of  the  dimness  and  to  come  out  of  a 
dream — that  she  need  feel  no  further  uncertainties  or 
fears.  That  which  was  to  take  place  would  move  for 
ward  without  let  or  hindrance  to  its  end.  That  was 
what  one  always  felt  in  his  presence. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  standing  in  a  part  of  the 
church  which  would  have  seemed  darker  than  any  other 
shadow-filled  corner  but  that  a  dim  light  burned  on  a 
small  altar  and  a  clergyman  whose  white  vestments 
made  him  look  wraithlike  and  very  tall  waited  before  it 
and  after  a  few  moments  of  solemn  silence  began  to 
read  from  the  prayer  book  he  held  in  his  hand. 

There  were  strange  passings  and  repassings  through 
Robin's  mind  as  she  made  her  low  responses — memories 
of  the  hours  when  she  had  asked  herself  if  she  were 
still  alive — if  she  were  not  dead  as  Donal  was,  but 
walking  about  without  having  found  it  out.  It  was  as 
though  this  must  be  true  now  and  her  own  voice  and 
Lord  Coombe's  and  the  clergyman's  only  ghosts'  voices. 
They  were  so  low  and  unlike  real  voices  and  when 
they  floated  away  among  the  shadows,  low  ghastly 
echoes  seemed  to  float  with  them. 

"I  will,"  she  heard  herself  say,  and  also  other  things 
the  clergyman  told  her  to  repeat  after  him  and  when 
Lord  Coombe  spoke  she  could  scarcely  understand  be- 


202  KOBHST 

cause  it  was  all  like   a   dream  and   did  not  matter. 

Once  she  turned  so  cold  and  white  and  trembled  so 
that  Dowie  made  an  involuntary  movement  towards 
her,  but  Lore!  Coombe's  quiet  firmness  held  her  sway 
ing  body  and  though  the  clergyman  paused  a  moment 
the  trembling  passed  away  and  the  ceremony  went 
on.  She  had  begun  to  tremble  because  she  remembered 
that  the  other  marriage  had  seemed  like  a  dream  in  an 
other  world  than  this — a  world  which  was  so  alive  that 
she  had  trembled  and  thrilled  with  exquisite  living. 
And  because  Donal  knew  how  frightened  she  was  he 
had  stood  so  close  to  her  that  she  had  felt  the  dear 
warnmess  of  his  body.  And  he  had  held  her  hand  quite 
tight  when  he  took  it  and  his  "I  will"  had  been  beauti 
ful  and  clear.  And  when  he  had  put  on  the  borrowed 
ring  he  had  drawn  her  eyes  up  to  the  blue  tarn  of  his 
own.  Donal  was  killed !  Perhaps  the  young  chaplain 
had  been  killed  too.  And  she  was  being  married  to 
Lord  Coombe  who  was  an  old  man  and  did  not  stand 
close  to  her,  whose  hand  scarcely  held  hers  at  all — 
but  who  was  putting  on  a  ring. 

Her  eyes — her  hunted  young  doe's  eyes — lifted  them 
selves.  Lord  Coombe  met  them  and  understood. 
Strangely  she  knew  he  understood — that  he  knew  what 
she  was  thinking  about.  For  that  one  moment  there 
came  into  his  eyes  a  look  which  might  not  have  been  his 
own,  and  vaguely  she  knew  that  it  held  strange  under 
standing  and  he  was  sorry  for  her — and  for  Donal  and 
for  everything  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  little  feudal  fastness  in  the  Highlands  which 
was  called  Darreuch  Castle — when  it  was  men 
tioned  by  any  one,  which  was  rarely — had  been 
little  more  than  a  small  ruin  when  Lord  Coombe  in 
herited  it  as  an  unconsidered  trifle  among  more  impos 
ing  and  available  property.  It  had  indeed  presented 
the  aspect  not  so  much  of  an  asset  as  of  an  entirely 
useless  relic.  The  remote  and — as  far  as  record  dwelt 
on  him — obviously  unnotable  ancestor  who  had  built 
it  as  a  stronghold  in  an  almost  unreachable  spot  upon 
the  highest  moors  had  doubtlessly  had  picturesque  rea 
sons  for  the  structure,  but  these  were  lost  in  the  dim 
past  and  appeared  on  the  surface,  unexplainable  to  a 
modern  mind.  Lord  Coombe  himself  had  not  explained 
an  interest  he  chose  to  feel  in  it,  or  his  own  reasons  for 
repairing  it  a  few  years  after  it  came  into  his  possession. 
He  rebuilt  certain  breaches  in  the  walls  and  made  cer 
tain  rooms  sufficiently  comfortable  to  allow  of  his  spend 
ing  a  few  nights  or  weeks  in  it  at  rare  intervals.  He 
always  went  alone,  taking  no  servant  with  him,  and 
made  his  retreat  after  his  own  mood,  served  only  by 
the  farmer  and  his  wife  who  lived  in  charge  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end,  herding  a  few  sheep  and  culti 
vating  a  few  acres  for  their  own  needs. 

They  were  a  silent  pair  without  children  and  plainly 
not  feeling  the  lack  of  them.  They  had  lived  in  remote 
moorland  places  since  their  birth.  They  had  so  little 

to  say  to  each  other  that  Lord  Coombe  sometimes  felt 

203 


204  KOBIN 

a  slight  curiosity  as  to  why  they  had  married  instead  of 
remaining  silent  singly.  There  was  however  neither 
sullenness  nor  resentment  in  their  lack  of  expression. 
Coombe  thought  they  liked  each  other  but  found  words 
unnecessary.  Jock  Macaur  driving  his  sheep  to  fold  in 
the  westering  sun  wore  the  look  of  a  man  not  unpleased 
with  life  and  at  least  undisturbed  by  it.  Maggy 
Macaur  doing  her  housework,  churning  or  clucking  to 
her  hens,  was  peacefully  cheerful  and  seemed  to  ask  no 
more  of  life  than  food  and  sleep  and  comfortable  work 
which  could  be  done  without  haste.  There  were  no 
signs  of  knowledge  on  her  part  or  Jock's  of  the  fact 
that  they  were  surrounded  by  wonders  of  moorland  and 
hillside  colour  and  beauty.  Sunrise  which  leaped  in 
delicate  flames  of  dawn  meant  only  that  they  must  leave 
their  bed ;  sunset  which  lighted  the  moorland  world  with 
splendour  meant  that  a  good  night's  sleep  was  coming. 

Jock  had  heard  from  a  roaming  shepherd  or  so  that 
the  world  was  at  war  and  that  lads  were  being  killed 
in  their  thousands.  One  good  man  had  said  that  the 
sons  of  the  great  gentry  were  being  killed  with  the 
rest.  Jock  did  not  say  that  he  did  not  believe  it  and  in 
fact  expressed  no  opinion  at  all.  If  he  and  Maggy 
gave  credit  to  the  story,  they  were  little  disturbed  by 
any  sense  of  its  reality.  They  had  no  neighbours  and 
their  few  stray  kinfolk  lived  at  remote  distances  and 
were  not  given  to  visits  or  communications.  There  had 
been  vague  rumours  of  far  away  wars  in  the  years  past, 
but  they  had  assumed  no  more  reality  than  legends. 
This  war  was  a  shadow  too  and  after  Jock  came  home 
one  night  and  mentioned  it  as  he  might  have  mentioned 
the  death  of  a  cow  or  the  buying  of  a  moor  pony  the 
subject  was  forgotten  by  both. 

"His  lordship"   it  was  who   reminded  them  of  it 


KOBIN  205 

He  even  bestowed  upon  the  rumour  a  certain  reality. 
He  appeared  at  the  stout  little  old  castle  one  day  with 
out  having  sent  them  warning,  which  was  unusual.  He 
came  to  give  some  detailed  orders  and  to  instruct  them 
in  the  matter  of  changes.  He  had  shown  forethought 
in  bringing  with  him  a  selection  of  illustrated  news 
papers.  This  saved  time  and  trouble  in  the  matter  of 
making  the  situation  clear.  The  knowledge  which  con 
veyed  itself  to  Maggy  and  Jock  produced  the  effect  of 
making  them  even  more  silent  than  usual  if  such  a 
condition  were  possible.  They  stared  fixedly  and  lis 
tened  with  respect  but  beyond  a  rare  "Hech!"  they 
had  no  opinion  to  express.  It  became  plain  that  the 
war  was  more  than  a  mere  rumour —  The  lads  who  had 
been  blown  to  bits  or  bayoneted!  The  widows  and 
orphans  that  were  left!  Some  of  the  youngest  of  the 
lads  had  lost  their  senses  and  married  young  things  only 
to  go  off  to  the  ill  place  folk  called  aThe  Front"  and 
leave  them  widows  in  a  few  days'  or  weeks'  time.  There 
were  hundreds  of  bits  of  girls  left  lonely  waiting  for 
their  bairns  to  come  into  the  world —  Some  with 
scarce  a  penny  unless  friends  took  care  of  them.  There 
was  a  bit  widow  in  her  teens  who  was  a  distant  kins 
woman  of  his  lordship's,  and  her  poor  lad  was  among 
those  who  were  killed.  He  had  been  a  fine  lad  and  he 
would  never  see  his  bairn.  The  poor  young  widow 
had  been  ill  with  grief  and  the  doctors  said  she  must 
be  hidden  away  in  some  quiet  place  where  she  would 
never  hear  of  battles  or  see  a  newspaper.  She  must 
be  kept  in  peace  and  taken  great  care  of  if  she  was  to 
gain  strength  to  live  through  her  time.  She  had  no 
family  to  watch  over  her  and  his  lordship  and  an  old 
lady  who  was  fond  of  her  had  taken  her  trouble  in  hand. 
The  well-trained  woman  who  had  nursed  her  as  a  child 


206  KOBIN 

would  bring  her  to  Darreuch  Castle  and  there  would 
stay. 

His  lordship  had  been  plainly  much  interested  in  the 
long  time  past  when  he  had  put  the  place  in  order  for 
his  own  convenience.  Now  he  seemed  even  more 
interested  and  more  serious.  He  went  from  room  to 
room  with  a  grave  face  and  looked  things  over  carefully. 
He  had  provided  himself  with  comforts  and  even  lux 
uries  before  his  first  coming  and  they  had  been  of  the 
solid  baronial  kind  which  does  not  deteriorate.  It  was 
a  little  castle  and  a  forgotten  one,  but  his  rooms  had 
beauty  and  had  not  been  allowed  to  be  as  gloomy  as  they 
might  have  been  if  stone  walls  and  black  oak  had  not 
been  warmed  by  the  rich  colours  of  tapestry  and  pictures 
which  held  light  and  glow.  But  other  things  were 
coming  from  London.  He  himself  would  wait  to  see 
them  arrive  and  installed.  The  Macaurs  wondered 
what  more  the  "young  leddy"  and  her  woman  could 
want  but  took  their  orders  obediently.  Her  woman's 
name  was  Mrs.  Dowson  and  she  was  a  quiet  decent  body 
who  would  manage  the  household.  That  the  young 
widow  was  to  be  well  taken  care  of  was  evident.  A  doc 
tor  was  to  ride  up  the  moorland  road  each  day  to  see 
her,  which  seemed  a  great  precaution  even  though  the 
Macaurs  did  not  know  that  he  had  consented  to  live 
temporarily  in  the  locality  because  he  had  been  well 
paid  to  do  so.  Lord  Coombe  had  chosen  him  with  as  dis 
creet  selection  as  he  had  used  in  his  choice  of  the  vicar 
of  the  ancient  and  forsaken  church.  A  rather  young 
specialist  who1  was  an  enthusiast  in  his  work  and  as 
ambitious  as  he  was  poor,  could  contemplate  selling 
some  months  of  his  time  for  value  received  if  the  terms 
offered  were  high  enough.  That  silence  and  discretion 
were  required  formed  no  objections. 


ROBIN  207 


The  rain  poured  down  on  the  steep  moorland  road 
when  the  carriage  slowly  climbed  it  to  the  castle. 
Robin,  seeming  to  gaze  out  at  the  sodden  heath,  did  not 
really  see  it  because  she  was  thinking  of  Dowie  who  sat 
silently  by  her  side.  Dowie  had  taken  her  from  the 
church  to  the  station  and  they  had  made  the  long  journey 
together.  They  had  talked  very  little  in  the  train 
though  Dowie  had  been  tenderly  careful  and  kind. 
Robin  knew  she  would  ask  no  questions  and  she  dully 
felt  that  the  blows  which  were  falling  on  everybody 
every  day  must  have  stunned  her  also.  What  she  her 
self  was  thinking  as  she  seemed  to  gaze  at  the  sodden 
heather  was  a  thing  of  piteous  and  helpless  pain.  She 
was  achingly  wondering  what  Dowie  was  thinking — 
what  she  knew  and  what  she  thought  of  the  girl  she  had 
taken  such  care  of  and  who  was  being  sent  away  to  be 
hidden  in  a  ruined  castle  whose  existence  was  a  forgot 
ten  thing.  The  good  respectable  face  told  nothing  but 
it  seemed  to  be  trying  to  keep  itself  from  looking  too 
serious;  and  once  Robin  had  thought  that  it  looked  as 
if  Dowie  might  suddenly  have  broken  down  if  she  would 
have  allowed  herself  but  she  would  not  allow  herself. 

The  truth  was  that  the  two  or  three  days  at  Eaton 
Square  had  been  very  hard  for  Dowie  to  manage  per 
fectly.  To  play  her  accepted  part  before  her  fellow 
servants  required  much  steady  strength.  They  were  all 
fond  of  "poor  little  Miss  Lawless"  and  had  the 
tendency  of  their  class  to  discuss  and  dwell  upon 
symptoms  with  sympathetic  harrowingness  of  detail. 
It  seemed  that  all  of  them  had  had  some  friend  or  rela 
tive  who  had  "gone  off  in  a  quick  decline.  It's  strange 
how  many  young  people  do !"  A  head  housemaid  actu- 


208  ROBUST 

ally  brought  her  heart  into  her  throat  one  afternoon  by 
saying  at  the  servants'  hall  tea : 

"If  she  was  one  of  the  war  brides,  I  should  say  she 
was  just  like  my  cousin  Lucy — poor  girl.  She  and  her 
husband  were  that  fond  of  each  other  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  see  them.  He  was  killed  in  an  accident. 
She  was  expecting.  And  they'd  been  that  happy.  She 
went  off  in  three  months.  She  couldn't  live  without 
him.  She  wasn't  as  pretty  as  Miss  Lawless,  of  course, 
but  she  had  big  brown  eyes  and  it  was  the  way  they 
looked  that  reminded  me.  Quick  decline  always  makes 
people's  eyes  look  big  and — just  as  poor  little  Miss  Law 
less  does.'7 

To  sit  and  eat  buttered  toast  quietly  and  only  look 
normally  sad  and  slowly  shake  one's  head  and  say, 
"Yes  indeed.  I  know  what  you  mean,  Miss  Tompkins," 
was  an  achievement  entitled  to  much  respect. 

The  first  night  Dowie  had  put  her  charge  to  bed  and 
had  seen  the  faint  outline  under  the  bedclothes  and  the 
sunken  eyes  under  the  pale  closed  lids  whose  heaviness 
was  so  plain  because  it  was  a  heaviness  which  had  no 
will  to  lift  itself  again  and  look  at  the  morning,  she 
could  scarcely  bear  her  woe.  As  she  dressed 
the  child  when  morning  came  and  saw  the 
delicate  bones  sharply  denoting  themselves,  and 
the  hollows  in  neck  and  throat  where  smooth  fair 
ness  had  been,  her  hands  almost  shook  as  she  touched. 
And  hardest  of  all  to  bear  was  the  still,  patient  look  in 
the  enduring  eyes.  She  was  being  patient — patient, 
poor  lamb,  and  only  God  himself  knew  how  she  cried 
when  she  was  left  afbne  in  her  white  bed,  the  door  closed 
between  her  and  all  the  house. 

"Does  she  think  I  am  wicked?"  was  what  was  pass 
ing  through  Robin's  mind  as  the  carriage  climbed  the 


ROBIN  209 

moor  through  the  rain.  "It  would  break  my  heart  if 
Dowie  thought  I  was  wicked.  But  even  that  does  not 
matter.  It  is  only  my  heart." 

In  memory  she  was  looking  again  into  DonaPs  eyes  as 
he  had  looked  into  hers  when  he  knelt  before  her  in  the 
wood.  Afterwards  he  had  kissed  her  dress  and  her 
feet  when  she  said  she  would  go  with  him  to  be  married 
so  that  he  could  have  her  for  his  own  before  he  went 
away  to  be  killed. 

It  would  have  been  Tils  heart  that  would  have  been 
broken  if  she  had  said  "No"  instead  of  whispering  the 
soft  "Yes"  of  a  little  mating  bird,  which  had  always 
been  her  answer  when  he  had  asked  anything  of  her. 

When  the  carriage  drew  up  at  last  before  the  entrance 
to  the  castle,  the  Macaurs  awaited  them  with  patient 
respectful  faces.  They  saw  the  "decent  body"  assist 
with  care  the  descent  of  a  young  thing  the  mere  lift  of 
whose  eyes  almost  caused  both  of  them  to  move  a  trifle 
backward. 

"You  and  Dowie  are  going  to  take  care  of  me,"  she 
said  quiet  and  low  and  with  a  childish  kindness. 
"Thank  you." 

She  was  taken  to  a  room  in  whose  thick  wall  Lord 
Coombe  had  opened  a  window  for  sunlight  and  the  sight 
of  hill  and  heather.  It  was  a  room  warm  and  full  of 
comfort — a  strange  room  to  find  in  a  little  feudal 
stronghold  hidden  from  the  world.  Other  rooms  were 
near  it,  as  comfortable  and  well  prepared.  One  in  a 
tower  adjoining  was  hung  with  tapestry  and  filled  with 
wonderful  old  things,  uncrowded  and  harmonious  and 
so  arranged  as  to  produce  the  effect  of  a  small  retreat 
for  rest,  the  reading  of  books  or  refuge  in  stillness. 

When  Robin  went  into  it  she  stood  for  a  few 
moments  looking  about  her — looking  and  wondering. 


210  ROBUST 

"Lord  Coombe  remembers  everything,"  she  said  very 
slowly  at  last,  " — everything.  He  remembers." 

"He  always  did  remember,"  said  Dowie  watching 
her.  "That's  it" 

"I  did  not  know — at  first,"  Eobin  said  as  slowly  as 
before.  "I  do — now." 

In  the  evening  she  sat  long  before  the  fire  and  Dowie, 
sewing  near  her,  looked  askance  now  and  then  at  her 
white  face  with  the  lost  eyes.  It  was  Dowie' s  own 
thought  that  they  were  "lost."  She  had  never  before 
seen  anything  like  them.  She  could  not  help  glanc 
ing  sideways  at  them  as  they  gazed  into  the  red  glow  of 
the  coal.  What  was  her  mind  dwelling  on  ?  Was  she 
thinking  of  words  to  say  ?  Would  she  begin  to  feel  that 
they  were  far  enough  from  all  the  world — remote  and 
all  alone  enough  for  words  not  to  be  sounds  too  terrible 
to  hear  even  as  they  were  spoken  ? 

"Oh!  dear  Lord,"  Dowie  prayed,  "help  her  to  ease 
her  poor,  timid  young  heart  that's  so  crushed  with  cruel 
weight." 

"You  must  go  to  bed  early,  my  dear,"  she  said  at 
length.  "But  why  don't  you  get  a  book  and  read  ?" 

The  lost  eyes  left  the  fire  and  met  hers. 

"I  want  to  talk,"  Robin  said.  "I  want  to  ask  you 
things." 

"I'll  tell  you  anything  you  want  to  know,"  answered 
Dowie.  "You're  only  a  child  and  you  need  an  older 
woman  to  talk  to." 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about — me,"  said  Robin.  She 
sat  straight  in  her  chair,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knee. 
"Do  you  know  about — me,  Dowie  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  Dowie  answered. 

"Tell  me  what  Lord  Coombe  told  you." 

Dowie  put  down  her  sewing  because  she  was  afraid 


ROBIN  211 

her  hands  would  tremble  when  she  tried  to  find  the 
proper  phrase  in  which  to  tell  as  briefly  as  she  could  the 
extraordinary  story. 

"He  said  that  you  were  married  to  a  young  gentleman 
who  was  killed  at  the  Front — and  that  because  you  were 
both  so  young  and  hurried  and  upset  you  perhaps  hadn't 
done  things  as  regular  as  you  thought  And  that  you 
hadn't  the  papers  you  ought  to  have  for  proof.  And  it 
might  take  too  much  time  to  search  for  them  now.  And 
— and — Oh,  my  love,  he's  a  good  man,  for  all  you've 
hated  him  so !  He  won't  let  a  child  be  born  with  shame 
to  blight  it.  And  he's  given  you  and  it — poor  helpless 
innocent — his  own  name,  God  bless  him!" 

Robin  sat  still  and  straight,  with  clasped  hands  on  her 
knee,  and  her  eyes  more  lost  than  before,  as  she 
questioned  Dowie  remorselessly.  There  was  something 
she  must  know. 

"He  said — and  the  Duchess  said — that  no  one  would 
believe  me  if  I  told  them  I  was  married.  Do  you 
believe  me,  Dowie  ?  Would  Mademoiselle  believe  me — 
if  she  is  alive — for  Oh !  I  believe  she  is  dead !  Would 
you  both  believe  me  ?" 

Dowie's  work  fell  upon  the  rug  and  she  held  out 
both  her  comfortable  nursing  arms,  choking : 

"Come  here,  my  lamb,'7  she  cried  out,  with  suddenly 
streaming  eyes.  "Come  and  sit  on  your  old  Dowie's 
knee  like  you  used  to  do  in  the  nursery." 

"You  do  believe  me — you  do !"  As  she  had  looked  in 
the  nursery  days — the  Robin  who  left  her  chair  and  was 
swept  into  the  well  known  embrace — looked  now.  She 
hid  her  face  on  Dowie's  shoulder  and  clung  to  her  with 
shaking  hands. 

"I  prayed  to  Jesus  Christ  that  you  would  believe  me, 
Dowie!"  she  cried.  "And  that  Mademoiselle  would 


212  ROBIN 

come  if  she  is  not  killed.  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  it 
was  true — I  wanted  you  to  know!" 

"That  was  it,  my  pet  lamb!"  Dowie  kept  hugging 
her  to  her  breast  "We'd  both  of  us  know !  We  know 
you — we  do!  ]STo  one  need  prove  things  to  us.  We 
know  /" 

"It  frightened  me  so  to  think  of  asking  you,"  shivered 
Robin.  "When  you  came  to  Eaton  Square  I  could  not 
bear  it.  If  your  dear  face  had  looked  different  I  should 
have  died.  But  I  couldn't  go  to  bed  to-night  without 
finding  out.  The  Duchess  and  Lord  Coombe  are  very 
kind  and  sorry  for  me  and  they  say  they  believe  me — 
but  I  can't  feel  sure  they  really  do.  And  nobody  else 
would.  But  you  and  Mademoiselle.  You  loved  me 
always  and  I  loved  you.  And  I  prayed  you  would." 

Dowie  knew  how  Mademoiselle  had  died — of  the 
heap  of  innocent  village  people  on  which  she  had  fallen 
bullet-riddled.  But  she  said  nothing  of  her  knowledge. 

"Mademoiselle  would  say  what  I  do  and  she  would 
stay  and  take  care  of  you  as  I'm  going  to  do,"  she  fal 
tered.  "God  bless  you  for  asking  me  straight  out,  my 
dear!  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  speak  and  praying 
you'd  do  it  before  I  went  to  bed  myself.  I  couldn't 
have  slept  a  wink  if  you  hadn't." 

For  a  space  they  sat  silent — Robin  on  her  knee  like 
a  child  drooping  against  her  warm  breast.  Outside  was 
the  night  stillness  of  the  moor,  inside  the  night  stillness 
held  within  the  thick  walls  of  stone  rooms  and  passages, 
in  their  hearts  the  stillness  of  something  which  yet 
waited — unsaid. 

At  last — 

"Did  Lord  Coombe  tell  you  who — he  was,  Dowie  ?" 

"He  said  perhaps  you  would  tell  me  yourself — if  you 


ROBIN  213 

felt  you'd  like  me  to  know.  He  said  it  was  to  be  as 
you  chose." 

Robin  fumbled  with  a  thin  hand  at  the  neck  of  her 
dress.  She  drew  from  it  a  chain  with  a  silk  bag 
attached.  Out  of  the  bag  she  took  first  a  small  folded 
package. 

"Do  you  remember  the  dry  leaves  I  wanted  to  keep 
when  I  was  so  little  ?"  she  whispered  woefully.  "I  was 
too  little  to.know  how  to  save  them.  And  you  made  me 
this  tiny  silk  bag." 

Dowie's  face  was  almost  frightened  as  she  drew  back 
ta  look.  There  was  in  her  motherly  soul  the  sudden 
sense  of  panic  she  had  felt  in  the  nursery  so  long  ago. 

"My  blessed  child  1"  she  breathed.  "Not  that  one- 
after  all  that  time !" 

"Yes,"  said  Robin.     "Look,  Dowie— look." 

She  had  taken  a  locket  out  of  the  silk  bag  and  she 
opened  it  and  Dowie  looked. 

Perhaps  any  woman  would  have  felt  what  she  felt 
when  she  saw  the  face  which  seemed  to  laugh  rejoicing 
into  hers,  as  if  Life  were  such  a  supernal  thing — as  if 
it  were  literally  the  blessed  gift  of  God  as  all  the  ages 
have  preached  to  us  even  while  they  have  railed  at  the 
burden  of  living  and  called  it  cruel  nothingness.  The 
radiance  in  the  eyesy  clearness,  the  splendid  strength 
and  joy  in  being,  could  have  built  themselves  into 
nothing  less  than  such  beauty  as  this. 

Dowie  looked  at  it  in  dead  silence,  her  breast  heaving 
fast. 

"Oh !  blessed  God !"  she  broke  out  with  a  gasp.  "Did 
they  kill— that!" 

"Yes,"  said  Robin,  her  voice  scarcely  more  than  a 
breath,  "Donal." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DOWIE  put  her  to  bed  as  she  had  done  when  she 
was  a  child,  feeling  as  if  the  days  in  the  nursery 
had  come  back  again.  She  saw  gradually 
die  out  of  the  white  face  the  uiinatural  restraint 
which  she  had  grieved  over.  It  had  suggested 
the  look  of  a  girl  who  was  not  only  des 
olate  but  afraid  and  she  wondered  how  long  she  had 
worn  it  and  what  she  had  been  most  afraid  of. 

In  the  depths  of  her  comfortable  being  there  lay  hid 
den  a  maternal  pleasure  in  the  nature  of  her  responsi 
bility.  She  had  cared  for  young  mothers  before,  and 
that  she  should  be  called  to  watch  over  Robin,  whose 
child  forlornness  she  had  rescued,  filled  her  heart  with 
a  glowing.  As  she  moved  about  the  room  quietly  pre 
paring  for  the  comfort  of  the  night  she  knew  that  the 
soft  dark  of  the  lost  eyes  followed  her  and  that  it  was 
not  quite  so  lost  as  it  had  looked  in  the  church  and  on 
their  singularly  silent  journey. 

When  her  work  was  done  and  she  turned  «to  the  bed 
again  Robin's  arms  were  held  out  to  her. 

"I  want  to  kiss  you,  Dowie — I  want  to  kiss  you,"  she 
said  with  just  the  yearning  dwelling  on  the  one  word, 
which  had  so  moved  the  good  soul  long  ago  with  its  inno 
cent  suggestion  of  tender  reverence  for  some  sacred  rite. 

Dowie  hurriedly  knelt  by  the  bedside. 

"Never  you  be  frightened,  my  lamb — because  you're 
so  young  and  don't  know  things,"  she  whispered,  hold 
ing  -her  as  if  she  were  a  baby.  "Never  you  let  yourself 

214 


KOBIN  215 

be  frightened  for  a  moment  Your  own  Dowie's  here 
and  always  will  be — and  Dowie  knows  all  about  it." 

"Until  you  took  me  on  your  knee  to-night,"  very  low 
and  in  broken  phrases,  "I  was  so  lonely.  I  was  as 
lonely  as  I  used  to  be  in  the  old  nursery  before  you 
and  Mademoiselle  came.  Afterwards — "  with  a  shud 
der,  "there  were  so  many  long,  long  nights.  There 
— always — will  be  so  many.  One  after  every  day.  I 
lie  in  my  bed  in  the  dark.  And  there  is  Nothing! 
Oh!  Dowie,  let  me  tell  you!"  her  voice  was  a  sweet 
longing  wail.  "When  Donal  came  back  all  the  world 
was  full  and  shining  and  warm !  It  was  full.  There 
was  no  loneliness  anywhere.  We  wanted  nothing  but 
each  other.  And  when  he  was  gone  there  was  only 
emptiness!  And  I  was  not  alive  and  I  could  not 
think.  I  can  scarcely  think  now." 

"You'll  begin  to  think  soon,  my  lamb,"  Dowie 
whispered.  "You've  got  something  to  think  of.  After 
a  while  the  emptiness  won't  be  so  big  and  black." 

She  ventured  it  very  carefully.  Her  wise  soul  knew 
that  the  Emptiness  must  come  first — the  awful  world- 
old  Emptiness  which  for  an  endless-seeming  time  noth 
ing  can  fill —  And  all  smug  preachers  of  the  claims  of 
life  and  duty  must  be  chary  of  approaching  those  who 
stand  desolate  gazing  into  it. 

"I  could  only  remember,"  the  broken  heart-wringing 
voice  went  on.  "And  it  seemed  as  if  the  remembering 
was  killing  me  over  and  over  again —  It  is  like  that 
now.  But  in  .the  Wood  Lord  Coombe  said  something 
strange — which  seemed  to  make  me  begin  to  think  a 
little.  Only  it  was  like  beginning  to  try  to  write 
with  a  broken  arm.  I  can't  go  on — I  can  only  think 
of  Donal —  And  be  lonely — lonely — lonely." 

The  very  words — the  mere  sound  of  them  in  her 


216  KOBE* 

own  ears  made  her  voice  trail  away  into  bitter  help 
less  crying — which  would  not  stop.  It  was  the  awful 
weeping  of  utter  woe  and  weakness  whose  convulsive 
sobs  go  on  and  on  until  they  almost  cease  to  seem  human 
sounds.  Dowie's  practical  knowledge  told  her  what  she 
had  to  face.  This  was  what  she  had  guessed  at  when 
she  had  known  that  there  had  been  crying  in  the  night. 
Mere  soothing  of  the  tenderest  would  not  check  it. 

"I  had  been  lonely — always —  And  then  the  lone 
liness  was  gone.  And  then — !  If  it  had  never 
g0ne__!» 

"I  know,  my  dear,  I  know,"  said  Dowie  watching  her 
with  practised,  anxious  eye.  And  she  went  away  for 
a  few  moments  and  came  back  with  an  unobtrusive 
calming  draught  and  coaxed  her  into  taking  it  and  sat 
down  and  prayed  as  she  held  the  little  hands  which 
unknowingly  beat  upon  the  pillow.  Something  of  her 
steadiness  and  love  flowed  from  her  through  her  own 
warm  restraining  palms  and  something  in  her  tender 
steady  voice  spoke  for  and  helped  her — though  it  seemed 
long  and  long  before  the  cruelty  of  the  storm  had  les 
sened  and  the  shadow  of  a  bddy  under  the  bed-clothee 
lay  deadly  still  and  the  heavy  eyelids  closed  as  if  they 
would  never  lift  again. 

Dowie  did  not  leave  her  for  an  hour  or  more  but 
sat  by  her  bedside  and  watched.  Like  this  had  been  the 
crying  in  the  night.  And  she  had  been  alone. 


As  she  sat  and  watched  she  thought  deeply  after  her 
lights.  She  did  not  think  only  of  the  sweet  shattered 
thing  she  so  well  loved.  She  thought  much  of  Lord 
Coombe.  Being  a  relic  of  a  class  which  may  be  re 
garded  as  forever  extinct,  her  views  on  the  subject  of 


KOBIN  217 

the  rights  and  responsibilities  of  rank  were  of  an  un 
swerving  reverence  verging  on  the  feudal.  Even  in 
early  days  her  perfection  of  type  was  rare.  To  her 
unwavering  mind  the  remarkable  story  she  had  be 
come  a  part  of  was  almost  august  in  its  subjection  of 
ordinary  views  to  the  future  of  a  great  house  and  its 
noble  name.  With  the  world  falling  to  pieces  and  great 
houses  crumbling  into  nothingness,  that  this  one  should 
be  rescued  from  the  general  holocaust  was  a  deed  worthy 
of  its  head.  But  where  was  there  another  man  who 
would  have  done  this  thing  as  he  had  done  it — remain 
ing  totally  indifferent  to  the  ignominy  which  would 
fall  upon  his  memory  in  the  years  to  come  when  the 
marriage  was  revealed.  That  the  explanation  of  his 
action  would  always  be  believed  to  be  an  unseemly  and 
shameful  one  was  to  her  respectable  serving-class  mind 
a  bitter  thing.  That  it  would  always  be  contemptu 
ously  said  that  a  vicious  elderly  man  had  educated  the 
daughter  of  his  mistress,  that  he  might  marry  her  and 
leave  an  heir  of  her  blooming  youth,  was  almost  worse 
than  if  he  had  been  known  to  have  committed  some 
decent  crime  like  honest  murder.  Even  the  servants' 
hall  in  the  slice  of  a  house,  discussing  the  ugly  whisper 
had  somewhat  revolted  at  it  and  thought  it  "a  bit  too 
steep  even  for  these  times."  But  he  had  plainly  looked 
the  whole  situation  in  the  face  and  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  do  what  he  had  done.  He  hadn't  cared  for 
himself;  he  had  only  cared  that  the  child  who 
was  to  be  born  should  be  his  legitimatised  succes 
sor  and  that  there  should  remain  after  him  a  Head 
of  the  House  of  Coombe.  That  such  houses  should 
have  heads  to  succeed  to  their  dignities  was  a  simple 
reverential  belief  of  Dowie's  and — apart  from  all  other 
feeling — the  charge  she  had  undertaken  wore  to  her 


218  ROBIN 

somewhat  the  aspect  of  a  religious  duty.  His  lordship 
was  as  one  who  had  a  place  on  a  sort  of  altar. 

"It's  because  he's  so  high  in  his  way  that  he  can 
bear  it,"  was  her  thought.  "He's  so  high  that  nothing 
upsets  him.  He's  above  things — that's  what  he  is." 
And  there  was  something  else  too — something  she  did 
not  quite  follow  but  felt  vaguely  moved  by.  What  was 
happening  to  England  came  into  it — and  something 
else  that  was  connected  with  himself  in  some  way  that 
was  his  own  affair.  In  his  long  talk  with  her  he  had 
said  some  strange  things — though  all  in  his  own  way. 

"Howsoever  the  tide  of  war  turns,  men  and  women 
will  be  needed  as  the  world  never  needed  them  before," 
was  one  of  them.  "This  one  small  unknown  thing  7 
want.  It  will  be  the  child  of  my  old  age.  I  want  it. 
Her  whole  being  has  been  torn  to  pieces.  Dr.  Red- 
cliff  says  that  she  might  have  died  before  this  if  her 
delicate  body  had  not  been  stronger  than  it  looks." 

"She  has  never  been  ill,  my  lord,"  Dowie  had  an 
swered,  " — but  she  is  ill  now." 

"Save  her — save  it  for  me,"  he  broke  out  in  a  voice 
she  had  never  heard  and  with  a  face  she  had  never  seen. 

That  in  this  plainly  overwrought  hour  he  should 
allow  himself  a  moment  of  forgetfulness  drew  him 
louchingly  near  to  her. 

"My  lord,"  she  said,  "I've  watched  over  her  since 
she  was  five.  I  know  the  ways  young  things  in  her 
state  need  to  have  about  them  to  give  them  strength 
and  help.  Thank  the  Lord  she's  one  of  the  loving  ones 
and  if  we  can  hold  her  until  she — wakes  up  to  natural 
feelings  siie'11  begin  to  try  to  live  for  the  sake  of  what'll 
need  her — and  what's  his  as  well  as  hers." 

Of  this  she  thought  almost  religiously  as  she  sat  by 
the  bedside  and  watched. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  doctor  rode  up  the  climbing  moorland  road 
the  next  morning  and  paid  a  long  visit  to  his 
patient.  He  was  not  portentous  in  manner  and 
lie  did  not  confine  his  conversation  to  the  subject  of 
symptoms.  He  however  included  something  of  subtle 
cross  examination  in  his  friendly  talk.  The  girl's 
thinness,  her  sometimes  panting  breath  and  the  hollow 
eyes  made  larger  by  the  black  ring  of  her  lashes  startled 
him  on  first  sight  of  her.  He  found  that  the  smallness 
of  her  appetite  presented  to  Dowie  a  grave  problem. 

"I'm  trying  to  coax  good  milk  into  her  by  degrees. 
She  does  her  best.  But  she  can't  eat."  When  they 
were  alone  she  said,  "I  shall  keep  her  windows  open 
and  make  her  rest  on  her  sofa  near  them.  I  shall  try 
to  get  her  to  walk  out  with  me  if  her  strength  will  let 
her.  We  can  go  slowly  and  she'll  like  the  moor.  If 
we  could  stop  the  awful  crying  in  the  night —  It's 
been  shaking  her  to  pieces  for  weeks  and  weeks —  It's 
the  kind  that  there's  no  checking  when  it  once  begins. 
It's  beyond  her  poor  bit  of  strength  to  hold  it  back.  I 
saw  how  hard  she  tried — for  my  sake.  It's  the  crying 
that's  most  dangerous  of  all." 

"Nothing  could  be  worse,"  the  doctor  said  and  he 
went  away  with  a  grave  face,  a  deeply  troubled  man. 

When  Dowie  went  back  to  the  Tower  room  she  found 
Robin  standing  at  a  window  looking  out  on  the  moorside. 
She  turned  and  spoke  and  Dowie  saw  that  intuition 

had  told  her  what  had  been  talked  about. 

210 


220 


"I  will  try  to  be  good,  Dowie,"  she  said.  "But  it 
comes  —  it  comes  because  —  suddenly  I  know  all  over 
again  that  I  can  never  see  him  any  more.  If  I  could 
only  see  him  —  even  a  long  way  off!  But  suddenly  it 
all  comes  back  that  I  can  never  see  him  again  — 
Never  !" 

Later  she  begged  Dowie  not  to  come  to  her  in  the 
night  if  she  heard  sounds  in  her  room. 

"It  will  not  hurt  you  so  much  if  you  don't  see  me," 
she  said.  "Fm  used  to  being  by  myself.  When  I  was 
at  Eaton  Square  I  used  to  hide  my  face  deep  in  the 
pillow  and  press  it  against  my  mouth.  No  one  heard. 
But  no  one  was  listening  as  you  will  be.  Don't  come 
in,  Dowie  darling.  Please  don't!" 

All  she  wanted,  Dowie  found  out  as  the  days  went 
by,  was  to  be  quiet  and  to  give  no  trouble.  No  other 
desires  on  earth  had  been  left  to  her.  Her  life  had 
not  taught  her  to  want  many  things.  And  now  —  : 

"Oh!  please  don't  be  unhappy!  If  I  could  only 
keep  you  from  being  unhappy  —  until  it  is  over!"  she 
broke  out  all  unconsciously  one  day.  And  then  was 
smitten  to  the  heart  by  the  grief  in  Dowie's  face. 

That  was  the  worst  of  it  all  and  sometimes  caused 
Dowie's  desperate  hope  and  courage  to  tremble  on  the 
brink  of  collapse.  The  child  was  thinking  that  before 
her  lay  the  time  when  it  would  be  "all  over." 

A  patient  who  held  to  such  thoughts  as  her  hidden 
comfort  did  not  give  herself  much  chance. 

Sometimes  she  lay  for  long  hours  on  the  sofa  by  the 
open  window  but  sometimes  a  restlessness  came  upon 
her  and  she  wandered  about  the  empty  rooms  of  the 
little  castle  as  though  she  were  vaguely  searching  for 
something  which  was  not  there.  Dowie  furtively  fol 
lowed  her  at  a  distance  knowing  that  she  wanted  to  be 


BOBIN  221 

alone.  The  wide  stretches  of  the  moor  seemed  to  draw 
her.  At  times  she  stood  gazing  at  them  out  of  a  win 
dow,  sometimes  she  sat  in  a  deep  window  seat  with  her 
hands  lying  listlessly  upon  her  lap  but  with  her  eyes 
always  resting  on  the  farthest  line  of  the  heather.  Once 
she  sat  thus  so  long  that  Dowie  crept  out  of  the  empty 
stone  chamber  where  she  had  been  waiting  and  went 
and  stood  behind  her.  At  first  Robin  did  not  seem 
conscious  of  her  presence  but  presently  she  turned  her 
head.  There  was  a  faintly  bewildered  look  in  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  know  why — when  I  look  at  the  edge  where 
the  hill  seems  to  end — it  always  seems  as  if  there 
might  be  something  coming  from  the  place  we  can't 
see — "  she  said  in  a  helpless-sounding  voice.  "We  can 
only  see  the  sky  behind  as  if  the  world  ended  there. 
But  I  feel  as  if  something  might  be  coming  from  the 
other  side.  The  horizon  always  looks  like  that — now. 
There  must  be  so  much — where  there  seems  to  be  noth 
ing  more.  I  want  to  go." 

She  tried  to  smile  a  little  as  though  at  her  own 
childish  f ancifulness  but  suddenly  a  heavy  shining  tear 
fell  on  her  hand.  And  her  head  dropped  and  she  mur 
mured,  "I'm  sorry,  Dowie,"  as  if  it  were  a  fault. 

The  Macaurs  watched  her  from  afar  with  their  own 
special  order  of  silent  interest.  But  the  sight  of  the 
slowly  flitting  and  each  day  frailer  young  body  began 
to  move  them  even  to  the  length  of  low-uttered  expres 
sion  of  fear  and  pity. 

"Some  days  she  fair  frights  me  passing  by  so  slow 
and  thin  in  her  bit  black  dress,"  Maggy  said.  "She 
minds  me  o'  a  lost  birdie  fluttering  about  wi'  a  broken 
wing.  She^s  gey  young  she  is,  to  be  a  widow  woman — 
left  like  that" 

The  doctor  came  up  the  moor  road  every  day  and 


222 

talked  more  to  Dowie  than  to  his  patient.  As  the 
weeks  went  by  he  could  not  sanely  be  hopeful.  Dowie's 
brave  face  seemed  to  have  lost  some  of  its  colour  at 
times.  She  asked  eager  questions  but  his  answers  did 
not  teach  her  any  new  thing.  Yet  he  was  of  a  modern 
school. 

"There  was  a  time,  Mrs.  Dowson,"  he  said,  "when  a 
doctor  believed — or  thought  he  believed — that  healing 
was  carried  in  bottles.  For  thinking  men  that  time 
has  passed.  I  know  very  little  more  of  such  a  case 
as  this  than  you  know  yourself.  You  are  practical 
and  kind  and  watchful.  You  are  doing  all  that 
can  be  done.  So  am  I.  But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
it  seems  as  if  only  a  sort  of  miracle — !  If — as 
you  said  once— -she  would  'wake  up' — there  would  be 
an  added  chance." 

"Yes,  sir,"  Dowie  answered.  "If  she  would.  But 
it  seems  as  if  her  mind  has  stopped  thinking  about  things 
that  are  to  come.  You  see  it  in  her  face.  She  can 
only  remember.  The  days  are  nothing  but  dreams  to 
her." 

Dowie  had  written  weekly  letters  to  Lord  Coombe  in 
accordance  with  his  request.  She  wrote  a  good  clear 
hand  and  her  method  was  as  clear  as  her  calligraphy. 
He  invariably  gathered  from  her  what  he  most  desired 
to  know  and  learned  that  her  courageous  good  sense 
was  plainly  to  be  counted  upon.  From  the  first  her 
respectful  phrases  had  not  attempted  to  conceal  from 
him  the  anxiety  she  had  felt. 

"It  was  the  way  she  looked  and  that  I  hadn't  expected 
to  see  such  a  change,  that  took  the  strength  out  of  me 
the  first  time  I  saw  her.  And  what  your  lordship  had 
told  me.  It  seemed  as  if  the  two  things  together  were 
too  much  for  her  to  face.  I  watch  over  her  day  and 


KOBIN  223 

night  though  I  try  to  hide  from  her  that  I  watch  so  close. 
If  she  could  be  made  to  eat  something,  and  to  sleep,  and 
not  to  break  her  little  body  to  pieces  with  those  dread 
ful  fits  of  crying,  there  would  be  something  to  hold 
on  to.  But  I  shall  hold  on  to  her,  my  lord,  whether 
there  is  anything  to  hold  on  to  or  not." 

He  knew  she  would  hold  on  but  as  the  weeks  passed 
and  she  faithfully  told  him  what  record  the  days  held 
he  saw  that  in  each  she  felt  that  she  had  less  and  less 
to  grasp.  And  then  came  a  letter  which  plainly  could 
not  conceal  ominous  discouragement  in  the  face  of  symp 
toms  not  to  be  denied — increasing  weakness,  even  more 
rapid  loss  of  weight,  and  less  sleep  and  great  exhaustion 
after  the  convulsions  of  grief. 

"It  couldn't  go  on  and  not  bring  on  the  worst.  It 
is  my  duty  to  warn  your  lordship,"  the  letter  ended. 

For  she  had  not  "wakened  up"  though  somehow  Dowie 
had  gone  on  from  day  to  day  wistfully  believing  that 
it  would  be  only  "Nature"  that  she  should.  Dowie 
had  always  believed  strongly  in  "Nature."  But  at 
last  there  grew  within  her  mind  the  fearsome  thought 
that  somehow  the  very  look  of  her  charge  was  the  look 
of  a  young  thing  who  had  done  with  Nature — and  be 
tween  whom  and  Nature  the  link  had  been  broken. 

There  were  beginning  to  be  young  lambs  on  the  hill 
side  and  Jock  Macaur  was  tending  them  and  their 
mothers  with  careful  shepherding.  Once  or  twice  he 
brought  a  newborn  and  orphaned  one  home  wrapped  in 
his  plaid  and  it  was  kept  warm  by  the  kitchen  fire 
and  fed  with  milk  by  Maggy  to  whom  motherless  lambs 
were  an  accustomed  care. 

There  was  no  lamb  in  his  plaid  on  the  afternoon 
when  he  startled  Dowie  by  suddenly  appearing  at  the 
door  of  the  room  where  she  sat  sewing —  It  was  a 


224  KOBIN 

thing  which  had  never  happened  before.  He  had  kept 
as  closely  to  his  own  part  of  the  place  as  if  there  had 
been  no  means  of  egress  from  the  rooms  he  and  Maggy 
lived  in.  His  face  sometimes  wore  an  anxious  look 
when  he  brought  back  a  half-dead  lamb,  and  now  though 
his  plaid  was  empty  his  weather-beaten  countenance 
had  trouble  in  it — so  much  trouble  that  Dowie  left  her 
work  quickly. 

"I  was  oot  o'  the  moor  and  I  heard  a  lamb  crying" 
he  said  uncertainly.  "I  thought  it  had  lost  its  mither. 
It  was  cryin'  pitifu'.  I  searched  an'  couldna  find  it. 
But  the  cryin'  went  on.  It  was  waur  than  a  lamb's 
cry —  It  was  waur — "  he  spoke  in  reluctant  jerks. 
"I  followed  until  I  cam'  to  it.  There  was  a  cluster  o' 
young  rowans  with  broom  and  gorse  thick  under  them. 
The  cryin'  was  there.  It  was  na  a  lamb  cryin'.  It 
was  the  young  leddy — lyin'  twisted  on  the  heather.  I 
daurna  speak  to  her.  It  was  no  place  for  a  man  body. 
I  cam'  awa'  to  ye,  Mistress  Dowson.  You  an'  Maggy 
maun  go  to  her.  I'll  follow  an'  help  to  carry  her  back, 
if  ye  need  me." 

Bowie's  colour  left  her. 

"I  thought  she  was  asleep  on  her  bed,"  she  said. 
"Sometimes  she  slips  away  alone  and  wanders  about  a 
bit.  But  not  far  and  I  always  follow  her.  To-day 
I  didn't  know." 


The  sound  like  a  lost  lamb's  crying  had  ceased  w-hen 
they  reached  her.  The  worst  was  over  but  she  lay  on 
the  heather  shut  in  by  the  little  thicket  of  gorse  and 
broom — white  and  with  heavily  closed  lids.  She  had 
not  wandered  far  and  had  plainly  crept  into  the  en 
closing  growth,  for  utter  seclusion.  Finding  it  she  had 


KOBUST  225 

lost  hold  and  been  overwhelmed.  That  was  all.  But 
as  Jock  Macaur  carried  her  back  to  Darreuch,  Dowie 
followed  with  slow  heavy  feet  and  heart.  They  took 
her  to  the  Tower  room  and  laid  her  on  her  sofa  be 
cause  she  had  faintly  whispered. 

"Please  let  me  lie  by  the  window,"  as  they  mounted 
the  stone  stairs. 

"Open  it  wide,"  she  whispered  again  when  Macaur 
had  left  them  alone. 

"Are  you — are  you  short  of  breath,  my  dear  ?"  Dowie 
asked  opening  the  window  very  wide  indeed. 

"No,"  still  in  a  whisper  and  with  closed  eyes.  "But 
— when  I  am  not  so  tired — I  want  to — look — " 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  and  Dowie  stood 
by  her  side  and  watched  her. 

" — At  the  end  of  the  heather,"  the  faint  voice  ended 
its  sentence  after  a  pause.  "I  feel  as  if — something  is 
there."  She  opened  her  eyes,  "Something — I  don't 
know  what.  'Something.'  Dowie!"  frightened,  "Are 
you — crying  ?" 

Dowie  frankly  and  helplessly  took  out  a  handkerchief 
and  sat  down  beside  her.  She  had  never  done  such  a 
thing  before.  • 

"You  cry  yourself,  my  lamb,"  she  said.  "Let  Dowie 
cry  a  bit." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AND  the  next  morning  came  the  "waking  up"  for 
which  Dowie  had  so  long  waited  and  prayed. 
But  not  as  Dowie  had  expected  it  or  in  tie  way 
she  had  thought  "Nature." 

She  had  scarcely  left  her  charge  during  the  night 
though  she  had  pretended  that  she  had  slept  as  usual 
in  an  adjoining  room.  She  stole  in  and  out,  she  sat 
by  the  bed  and  watched  the  face  on  the  pillow  and 
thanked  God  that — strangely  enough — the  child  slept. 
She  had  not  dared  to  hope  that  she  would  sleep,  but  be 
fore  midnight  she  became  still  and  fell  into  a  deep 
quiet  slumber.  It  seemed  deep,  for  she  ceased  to  stir 
and  it  was  so  quiet  that  once  or  twice  Dowie  be 
came  a  little  anxious  and  bent  over  her  to  look  at  her 
closely  and  listen  to  her  breathing.  But,  though  the 
small  white  face  was  always  a  touching  sight,  it  was 
no  whiter  than  usual  and  her  breathing  though  low  and 
very  soft  was  regular. 

"But  where  the  strength's  to  come  from  the  good 
God  alone  knows !"  was  Dowie's  inward  sigh. 

The  clock  had  just  struck  one  when  she  leaned  for 
ward  again.  What  she  saw  would  not  have  disturbed 
her  if  she  had  not  been  overstrung  by  long  anxiety. 
But  now — after  the  woeful  day — in  the  middle  of  the 
night  with  the  echo  of  the  clock's  solitary  sound  still 
in  the  solitary  room — in  the  utter  stillness  of  moor  and 
castle  emptiness  she  was  startled  almost  to  fright. 
Something  had  happened  to  the  pitiful  face.  A  change 

22G 


EOBIX  227 

had  come  over  it — not  a  change  which  had  stolen  gradu 
ally  but  a  change  which  was  actually  sudden.  It  was 
smiling — it  had  begun  to  smile  that  pr'etty  smile  which 
was  a  very  gift  of  God  in  itself. 

Dowie  drew  back  and  put  her  hand  over  her  mouth. 
"Oh !"  she  said  "Can  she  be — going — -in  her  sleep  2" 

But  she  was  not  going.  Even  Dowie's  fright  saw 
that  in  a  few  moments  more.  Was  it  possible  that  a 
mist  of  colour  was  stealing  over  the  whiteness — or  some 
thing  near  colour  ?  Was  the  smile  deepening  and  grow 
ing  brighter?  Was  that  caught  breath  something  al 
most  like  a  little  sob  of  a  laugh — a  tiny  ghost  of  a 
sound  more  like  a  laugh  than  any  other  sound  on  earth  ? 

Dowie  slid  down  upon  her  knees  and  prayed  devoutly 
— clutching  at  the  robe  of  pity  and  holding  hard — as 
women  did  in  crowds  nearly  two  thousand  years  ago. 

"Oh,  Lord  Jesus,"  she  was  breathing  behind  the  hands 
which  hid  her  face — "if  she  can  dream  what  makes  her 
smile  like  that,  let  her  go  on,  Lord  Jesus — let  her  go 
on." 

When  she  rose  to  her  chair  again  and  seated  herself 
to  watch  it  almost  awed,  it  did  not  fade — the  smile.  It 
settled  into  a  still  radiance  and  stayed.  And,  fear 
ful  of  the  self-deception  of  longing  as  she  was,  Dowie 
could  have  sworn  as  the  minutes  passed  that  the  mist  of 
colour  had  been  real  and  remained  also  and  even  made 
the  whiteness  a  less  deathly  thing.  And  there  was  such 
a  naturalness  in  the  strange  smiling  that  it  radiated 
actual  peace  and  rest  and  safety.  When  the  clock 
struck  three  and  there  was  no  change  and  still  the  small 
face  lay  happy  upon  the  pillow  Dowie  at  last  even  felt 
that  she  dare  steal  into  her  own  room  and  lie  down  for 
a  short  rest.  She  went  very  shortly  thinking  she  would 
return  in  half  an  hour  at  most,  but  the  moment  she  lay 


228  ROBUST 

down,  her  tired  eyelids  dropped  and  she  slept  as  she 
had  not  slept  since  her  first  night  at  Darreuch  Castle. 


When  she  wakened  it  was  not  with  a  start  or  sense  of 
anxiety  even  though  she  found  herself  sitting  up  in  the 
broad  morning  light.  She  wondered  at  her  own  sense 
of  being  rested  and  really  not  afraid.  She  told  herself 
that  it  was  all  because  of  the  smile  she  had  left  on 
Robin's  face  and  remembered  as  her  own  eyes  closed. 

She  got  up  and  stole  to  the  partly  opened  door  of 
the  next  room  and  looked  in.  All  was  quite  still. 
Robin  herself  seemed  very  still  but  she  was  awake.  She 
lay  upon  her  pillow  with  a  long  curly  plait  trailing  over 
one  shoulder — and  she  was  smiling  as  she  had  smiled  in 
her  sleep — softly — wonderfully.  "I  thank  God  for 
that,"  Dowie  thought  as  she  went  in. 

The  next  moment  her  heart  was  in  her  throat. 

"Dowie,"  Robin  said  and  she  spoke  as  quietly  as 
Dowie  had  ever  heard  her  epeak  in  all  their  life  to 
gether,  "Donal  came." 

"Did  he,  my  lamb  ?"  said  Dowie  going  to  her  quickly 
but  trying  to  speak  as  naturally  herself.  "In  a  dream  ?" 

Robin  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  think  it  was  a  dream.  It  wasn't  like  one. 
I  think  he  was  here.  God  sometimes  lets  them  come — 
just  sometimes — doesn't  he?  Since  the  War  there 
have  been  so  many  stories  about  things  like  that.  Peo 
ple  used  to  come  to  see  the  Duchess  and  sit  and  whisper 
about  them.  Lady  Maureen  Darcy  used  to  go  to  a 
place  where  there  was  a  woman — quite  a  poor  woman — 
who  went  into  a  kind  of  sleep  and  gave  her  messages 
from  her  husband  who  was  killed  at  Liege  only  a  few 
weeks  after  they  were  married.  The  woman  said  he 


KOBIJST  229 

was  in  the  room  and  Lady  Maureen  was  quite  sure  it 
was  true  because  he  told  her  true  things  no  one  knew 
but  themselves.  She  said  it  kept  her  from  going  crazy. 
It  made  her  quite  happy." 

"I've  heard  of  such  things,"  said  Dowie,  valiantly  de 
termined  to  keep  her  voice  steady  and  her  expression  un- 
alarmed.  "Perhaps  they  are  true.  Now  that  the  other 
world  is  so  crowded  with  those  that  found  themselves 
there  sudden — perhaps  they  are  crowded  so  close  to  earth 
that  they  try  to  speak  across  to  the  ones  that  are  longing 
to  hear  them.  It  might  be.  Lie  still,  my  dear,  and 
I'll  bring  you  a  cup  of  good  hot  milk  to  drink.  Do  you 
think  you  could  eat  a  new-laid  egg  and  a  shred  of 
toast?" 

"I  will,"  answered  Kobin.     "I  will.'9 

She  sat  up  in  bed  and  the  faint  colour  on  her  cheeks 
deepened  and  spread  like  a  rosy  dawn.  Dowie  saw  it 
and  tried  not  to  stare.  She  must  not  seem  to  watch 
her  too  fixedly — whatsoever  alarming  thing  was  happen 
ing. 

"I  can't  tell  you  all  he  said  to  me,"  she  went  on 
softly.  "There  was  too  much  that  only  belonged  to 
us.  He  stayed  a  long  time.  I  felt  his  arms  holding 
me.  I  looked  into  the  blue  of  his  eyes — just  as  I  al 
ways  did.  He  was  not  dead.  He  was  not  an  angel. 
He  was  DonaL  He  laughed  and  made  me  laugh  too. 
He  could  not  tell  me  now  where  he  was.  There  was  a 
reason.  But  he  said  he  could  come  because  we  belonged 
to  each  other — because  we  loved  each  other  so.  He  said 
beautiful  "lings  to  me — "  She  began  to  speak  very 
slowly  as  if  in  careful  retrospection.  "Some  of  them 
were  like  the  things  Lord  Coombe  said.  But  when 
Donal  said  them  they  seemed  to  go  into  my  heart  and  I 
understood  them.  He  told  me  things  about  England 


230  ROBIN 

— needing  new  souls  and  new  strong  bodies — he  loved 
England.  He  said  beautiful — beautiful  things." 

Dowie  made  a  magnificent  effort  to  keep  her  eyes 
clear  and  her  look  straight.  It  was  a  soldierly  thing  to 
do,  for  there  had  leaped  into  her  mind  memories  of  the 
fears  of  the  great  physician  who  had  taken  charge  of 
poor  young  Lady  Maureen. 

"I  am  sure  he  would  do  that — sure  of  it,"  she  said 
without  a  tremor  in  her  voice.  "It's  only  things  like 
that  he's  thought  of  his  whole  life  through.  And  surely 
it  was  love  that  brought  him  back  to  you — both." 

She  wondered  if  she  was  not  cautious  enough  in  say 
ing  the  last  word.  But  her  fear  was  a  mistake. 

"Yes — both"  Robin  gave  back  with  a  new  high 
bravery.  "Both,"  she  repeated.  "He  will  never  be 
dead  again.  And  I  shall  never  be  dead.  When  I 
could  not  think,  it  used  to  seem  as  if  I  must  be — perhaps 
I  was  beginning  to  go  crazy  like  poor  Lady  Maureen.  I 
have  come  alive." 

"Yes,  my  lamb,"  answered  Dowie  with  fine  courage. 
"You  look  it.  We'll  get  you  ready  for  your  breakfast 
now.  I  will  bring  you  the  egg  and  toast — a  nice  crisp 
bit  of  hot  buttered  toast." 

"Yes,"  said  Robin.  "He  said  he  would  come  again 
and  I  know  he  will." 

Dowie  bustled  about  with  inward  trembling.  What 
soever  strange  thing  had  happened  perhaps  it  had  awak 
ened  the  stunned  instinct  in  the  girl — perhaps  some 
change  had  begun  to  take  place  and  she  would  eat  the 
bit  of  food.  That  would  be  sane  and  health^  enough  in 
any  case.  The  test  would  be  the  egg  and  the  crisp 
toast — the  real  test.  Sometimes  a  patient  had  a  mo 
ment  of  uplift  and  then  it  died  out  too  quickly  to  do 
good. 


BOBIK  231 

But  when  she  had  been  made  ready  and  the  tray  was 
brought  Robin  ate  the  small  breakfast  without  shrinking 
from  it,  and  the  slight  colour  did  not  die  away  from  her 
cheek.  The  lost  look  was  in  her  eyes  no  more,  her 
voice  had  a  new  tone.  The  exhaustion  of  the  night  be 
fore  seemed  mysteriously  to  have  disappeared.  Her 
voice  was  not  tired  and  she  herself  was  curiously  less 
languid.  Dowie  could  scarcely  believe  the  evidence  of 
her  ears  when,  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  she  sug 
gested  that  they  should  go  out  together. 

"The  moor  is  beautiful  to-day/'  she  said.  "I  want  to 
know  it  better.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  never  really  looked 
at  anything." 

One  of  the  chief  difficulties  Dowie  often  found  she 
was  called  upon  to  brace  herself  to  bear  was  that  in  these 
days  she  looked  so  pathetically  like  a  child.  Her  small 
heart-shaped  face  had  always  been  rather  like  a  baby's, 
but  in  these  months  of  her  tragedy,  her  youngness  at 
times  seemed  almost  cruel.  If  she  had  been  ten  years 
old  she  could  scarcely  have  presented  herself  to  the 
mature  vision  as  a  more  touching  thing.  It  seemed 
incredible  to  Dowie  that  she  should  have  so  much  of 
life  and  suffering  behind  and  before  her  and  yet  look 
like  that  It  was  not  only  the  soft  curve  and  droop  of 
her  mouth  and  the  lift  of  her  eyes — there  was  added  to 
these  something  as  indescribable  as  it  was  heart-moving. 
It  was  the  thing  before  which  Donal — boy  as  he  was^ — 
had  trembled  with  love  and  joy.  He  had  felt  its  tender- 
est  sacredness  when  he  had  knelt  before  her  in  the  Wood 
and  kissed  her  feet,  almost  afraid  of  his  own  voice  when 
he  poured  forth  his  pleading.  There  were  times  when 
Dowie  was  obliged  to  hold  herself  still  for  a  moment 
or  so  lest  it  should  break  down  her  determined  calm. 

It  was  to  be  faced  this  morning  when  Robin  came 


232  KOBIN 

down  in  her  soft  felt  hat  and  short  tweed  skirt  and  coat 
for  walking.  Dowie  saw  Mrs.  Macaur  staring  through 
a  window  at  her,  with  slightly  open  mouth,  as  if  sud 
denly  struck  with  amazement  which  held  in  it  a  touch  of 
shock.  Dowie  herself  was  obliged  to  make  an  affec 
tionate  joke. 

"Your  short  skirts  make  such  a  child  of  you  that  I 
feel  as  if  I  was  taking  you  out  to  walk  in  the  park,  and 
I  must  hold  your  hand,'7  she  said. 

Robin  glanced  down  at  herself. 

"They  do  make  people  look  young,"  she  agreed. 
"The  Lady  Downstairs  looked  quite  like  a  little  girl 
when  she  went  out  in  them.  But  it  seems  so  long 
since  I  was  little." 


She  walked  with  Dowie  bravely  though  they  did  not 
go  far  from  the  Castle.  It  happened  that  they  met 
the  doctor  driving  up  the  road  which  twisted  in  and  out 
among  the  heath  and  gorse.  For  a  moment  he  looked 
startled  but  he  managed  to  control  himself  quickly  and 
left  his  dogcart  to  his  groom  so  that  he  might  walk 
with  them.  His  eyes — at  once  grave  and  keen — scarcely 
left  her  as  he  strolled  by  her  side. 

When  they  reached  the  Castle  he  took  Dowie  aside 
and  talked  anxiously  with  her. 

"There  is  a  change,"  he  said.  "Has  anything  hap 
pened  which  might  have  raised  her  spirits  ?  It  looks 
like  that  kind  of  thing.  She  mustn't  do  too  much. 
There  is  always  that  danger  to  guard  against  in  a  case 
of  sudden  mental  stimulation." 

"She  had  a  dream  last  night,"  Dowie  began. 

"A  dream !"  he  exclaimed  disturbedly.  "What  kind 
of  dream?" 


KOBIN  233 

"The  dream  did  it.  I  saw  the  change  the  minute  I 
went  to  her  this  morning,"  Dowie  answered.  "Last 
night  she  looked  like  a  dying  thing — after  one  of  her 
worst  breakdowns.  This  morning  she  lay  there  peace 
ful  and  smiling  and  almost  rosy.  She  had  dreamed 
that  she  saw  her  husband  and  talked  to  him.  She  be 
lieved  it  wasn't  a  common  dream — that  it  wasn't  a 
dream  at  all.  She  believes  he  really  came  to  her." 

Doctor  Benton  rubbed  his  chin  and  there  was  serious 
anxiety  in  the  movement.  Lines  marked  themselves  on 
his  forehead. 

"I  am  not  sure  I  like  that — not  at  all  sure.  In  fact 
I'm  sure  I  don't  like  it.  One  can't  say  what  it  may 
lead  to.  It  would  be  better  not  to  encourage  her  to 
dwell  on  it,  Mrs.  Dowson." 

"The  one  thing  that's  in  my  mind,  sir,"  Bowie's  re 
spectfulness  actually  went  to  the  length  of  hinting  at 
firmness — "is  that  it's  best  not  to  discourage  her  about 
anything  just  now.  It  brought  a  bit  of  natural  colour 
to  her  cheeks  and  it  made  her  eat  her  breakfast — which 
she  hasn't  been  able  to  do  before.  They  musi  be  fed, 
sir,"  with  the  seriousness  of  experience.  "You  know 
that  better  than  I  do." 

"Yes — yes.     They  must  have  food." 

"'She  suggested  the  going  out  herself,"  said  Dowie. 
"I'd  thought  she'd  be  too  weak  and  listless  to  move. 
And  they  ought  to  have  exercise." 

"They  must  have  exercise,"  agreed  Doctor  Benton, 
but  he  still  rubbed  his  chin.  "Did  she  seem  excited  or 
feverish  ?" 

"No,  sir,  she  didn't  That  was  the  strange  thing. 
It  was  me  that  was  excited  though  I  kept  quiet  on  the 
outside.  At  first  it  frightened  me.  I  was  afraid  of — 
what  you're  afraid  of,  sir.  It  was  only  her  not  being 


234  KOBIN 

excited — and  speaking  in  her  own  natural  voice  that 
helped  me  to  behave  as  sense  told  me  I  ought  to.  She 
was  happy — that's  what  she  looked  and  what  she  was." 

She  stopped  a  moment  here  and  looked  at  the  man. 
Then  she  decided  to  go  on  because  she  saw  chances  that 
he  might,  to  a  certain  degree,  understand. 

"When  she  told  me  that  he  was  not  dead  when  she 
saw  him,  she  said  that  she  was  not  dead  any  more  her 
self — that  she  had  come  alive.  If  believing  it  will 
keep  her  feeling  alive,  sir,  wouldn't  you  say  it  would  be 
a  help?" 

The  Doctor  had  ceased  rubbing  his  chin  but  he  looked 
deeply  thoughtful.  He  had  several  reasons  for 
thoughtfulness  in  connection  with  the  matter.  In 
the  present  whirl  of  strange  happenings  in  a  mad  war- 
torn  world,  circumstances  which  would  once  have 
seemed  singular  seemed  so  no  longer  because  nothing 
was  any  longer  normal.  He  realised  that  he  had  been 
by  no  means  told  all  the  details  surrounding  this  special 
case,  but  he  had  understood  clearly  that  it  was  of  serious 
importance  that  this  girlish  creature's  child  should  be 
preserved.  He  wondered  how  much  more  the  finely 
mannered  old  family  nurse  knew  than  he  did. 

"Her  vitality  must  be  kept  up —  Nothing  could  be 
worse  than  inordinate  grief,"  he  said.  "We  must  not 
lose  any  advantage.  But  she  must  be  closely  watched." 

"I'll  watch  her,  sir,"  answered  Dowie.  "And  every 
order  you  give  I'll  obey  like  clockwork.  Might  I  take 
the  liberty  of  saying  that  I  believe  it'll  be  best  if  you 
don't  mention  the  dream  to  her !" 

"Perhaps  you  are  right.  On  the  whole  I  think 
you  are.  It's  not  wise  to  pay  attention  to  hallucina 
tions." 

He  did  not  mention  the  dream  to  Eobin,  but  his  visit 


ROBIN  235 

was  longer  than  usual.  After  it  he  drove  down  the 
moor  thinking  of  curious  things.  The  agonised  ten 
sion  of  the  war,  he  told  himself,  seemed  to  be  develop 
ing  new  phases — mental,  nervous,  psychic,  as  well  as 
physiological.  What  unreality — or  previously  unknown 
reality — were  they  founded  upon  ?  It  was  curious  how 
much  one  had  begun  to  hear  of  telepathy  and  visions. 
He  himself  had  been  among  the  many  who  had  discussed 
the  psychopathic  condition  of  Lady  Maureen  Darcy, 
whose  black  melancholia  had  been  dispersed  like  a 
cloud  after  her  visits  to  a  little  sewing  woman 
who  lived  over  an  oil  dealer's  shop  in  the  Seven 
Sisters  Road.  He  also  was  a  war  tortured  man 
mentally  and  the  torments  he  must  conceal  be 
neath  a  steady  professional  calm  had  loosened  old 
shackles. 

"Good  God!  If  there  is  help  of  any  sort  for  such 
horrors  of  despair  let  them  take  it  where  they  find  it," 
he  found  himself  saying  aloud  to  the  emptiness  of  the 
stretches  of  heath  and  bracken.  "The  old  nurse  will 
watch." 


Dowie  watched  faithfully.  She  did  not  speak  of  the 
dream,  but  as  she  went  about  doing  kindly  and  curiously 
wise  things  she  never  lost  sight  of  any  mood  or  expres 
sion  of  Robin's  and  they  were  all  changed  ones.  On  the 
night  after  she  had  "come  alive"  they  talked  together 
in  the  Tower  room  somewhat  as  they  had  talked  on  the 
night  of  their  arrival. 

A  wind  was  blowing  on  the  moor  and  making  strange 
sounds  as  it  whirled  round  the  towers -and  seemed  to  cry 
at  the  narrow  windows.  By  the  fire  there  was  drawn  a 
broad  low  couch  heaped  with  large  cushions,  and  Robin 


236  ROBIN 

lay  upon  them  looking  into  the  red  hollow  of  coal., 

"You  told  me  I  had  something  to  think  of/'  she  said. 
"I  am  thinking  now.  I  shall  always  be  thinking." 

"That's  right,  my  dear/'  Dowie  answered  her  with 
sane  kindliness. 

"I  will  do  everything  you  tell  me,  Dowie.  I  will 
not  cry  any  more  and  I  will  eat  what  you  ask  me  to 
eat.  I  will  sleep  as  much  as  I  can  and  I  will  walk 
every  day.  Then  I  shall  get  strong." 

"That's  the  way  to  look  at  things.  It's  a  brave  way," 
Dowie  answered.  "What  we  want  most  is  strength  and 
good  spirits,  my  dear." 

"That  was  one  of  the  things  Donal  said,"  Robin  went 
on  quite  naturally  and  simply.  "He  told  me  I  need 
not  be  ill.  He  said  a  rose  was  not  ill  when  a  new  bud 
was  blooming  on  it.^  That  was  one  of  the  lovely  things 
he  told  me.  There  were  so  many." 

"It  was  a  beautiful  thing,  to  be  sure,"  said  Dowie. 

To  her  wholly  untranscendental  mind,  long  trained 
by  patent  facts  and  duties,  any  suggestion  of  the  occult 
was  vaguely  ominous.  She  had  spent  her  early  years 
among  people  who  regarded  such  things  with  terror. 
In  the  stories  of  her  youth  those  who  saw  visions  usually 
died  or  met  with  calamity.  That  their  visions  were,  as 
a  rule,  gruesome  and  included  pale  and  ghastly  faces 
and  voices  hollow  with  portent  was  now  a  supporting 
recollection.  "He  was  not  dead.  He  was  not  an  angel. 
He  was  Donal,"  Robin  had  said  in  her  undoubting 
voice.  And  she  had  stood  the  test — that  real  test  of 
earthly  egg  and  buttered  toast.  Dowie  was  a  sensible 
and  experienced  creature  and  had  been  prepared  be 
fore  the  doctor's  suggestion  to  lose  no  advantage.  If 
the  child  began  to  sleep  and  eat  her  food,  and  the  fits 
of  crying  could  be  controlled,  why  should  she  not  be 


KOBIlSr  237 

allowed  to  believe  what  supported  her?  When  her 
baby  came  she'd  forget  less  natural  things.  Dowie  knew 
how  her  eyes  would  look  as  she  bent  over  it — how  they 
would  melt  and  glow  and  brood  and  how  her  childish 
mouth  would  quiver  with  wonder  and  love.  Who  knew 
but  that  the  Lord  himself  had  sent  her  that  dream  to 
comfort  her  because  she  had  always  been  such  a  loving, 
lonely  little  thing  with  nothing  but  tender  goodness  in 
her  whole  body  and  soul  ?  She  had  never  had  an 
untender  thought  of  anybody  but  for  that  queer  dislike 
to  his  lordship —  And  when  you  came  to  think  of  what 
had  been  forced  into  her  innocent  mind  about  him,  who 
wondered? —  And  she  was  beginning  to  see  that  dif- 
erent  too,  in  these  strange  days.  She  was  nothing  now 
but  softness  and  sorrow.  It  seemed  only  right  that  some 
pity  should  be  shown  to  her. 

Dowie  noticed  that  she  did  not  stay  up  late  that 
night  and  that  when  she  went  to  bed  she  knelt  a  long 
time  by  her  bedside  saying  her  prayers.  Oh !  What  a 
little  girl  she  looked,  Dowie  thought, — in  her  white 
night  gown  with  her  long  curly  plait  hanging  down  her 
back  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon!  And  she  to  be  the 
mother  of  a  child — that  was  no  more  than  one  herself ! 

When  all  the  prayers  were  ended  and  Dowie  came 
back  to  the  room  to  tuck  her  in,  her  face  was  marvel 
lously  still-looking  and  somehow  remotely  sweet  as  if  she 
had  not  quite  returned  from  some  place  of  wonderful 
calm. 

She  nestled  into  the  softness  of  the  pillow  with  her 
hand  under  her  cheek  and  her  lids  dropped  quietly  at 
once. 

"Good  night,  Dowie  dear,"  she  murmured.  "I  am 
going  to  sleep." 

To  sleep  in  a  moment  or  so  Dowie  saw  she  went — 


238  KOBIN 

with  the   soft   suddenness   of   a  baby   in   its   cradle. 

But  it  could  not  be  said  that  Dowie  slept  soon.  She 
found  herself  lying  awake  listening  to  the  wind  whirl 
ing  and  crying  round  the  tower.  The  sound  had  some 
thing  painfully  human  in  it  which  made  her  conscious 
of  a  shivering  inward  tremor. 

"It  sounds  as  if  something — that  has  been  hurt  and 
is  cold  and  lonely  wants  to  get  in  where  things  are 
human  and  warm,"  was  her  troubled  thought. 

It  was  a  thought  so  troubled  that  she  could  not  rest 
and  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  lie  still  she  turned  from 
side  to  side  listening  in  an  abnormal  mood. 

"I'm  foolish,"  she  whispered.  "If  I  don't  get  hold 
of  myself  I  shall  lose  my  senses.  I  don't  feel  like  my 
self.  Would  it  be  too  silly  if  I  got  up  and  opened  a 
tower  window  ?" 

She  actually  got  out  of  her  bed  quietly  and  crept  to 
the  tower  room  and  opened  one.  The  crying  wind 
rushed  in  and  past  her  with  a  soft  cold  sweep.  It  was 
not  a  bitter  wind,  only  a  piteous  one. 

"It's — it's  come  in,"  she  said,  quaking  a  little,  and 
went  back  to  her  bed. 

When  she  awakened  in  the  morning  she  realised  that 
she  must  have  fallen  asleep  as  quickly  as  Kobin  had,  for 
she  remembered  nothing  after  her  head  had  touched  the 
pillow.  The  wind  had  ceased  and  the  daylight  found 
her  herself  again. 

"It  was  silly,"  she  said,  "but  it  did  something  for  me 
as  silliness  will  sometimes.  Walls  and  shut  windows 
are  nothing  to  them.  If  he  came,  he  came  without  my 
help.  But  it  pacified  the  foolish  part  of  me." 

She  went  into  Robin's  room  with  a  sense  of  holding 
her  breath,  but  firm  in  her  determination  to  breathe  and 
speak  as  a  matter  of  fact  woman  should. 


ROBIN  239 

Robin  was  standing  at  her  window  already  dressed  in 
the  short  skirt  and  soft  hat.  She  turned  and  showed 
that  her  thin  small  face  was  radiant. 

"I  have  been  out  on  the  moor.  I  wakened  just  after 
sunrise,  and  I  heard  a  skylark  singing  high  up  in  the 
sky.  I  went  out  to  listen  and  say  my  prayers,"  she 
said.  "You  don't  know  what  the  moor  is  like,  Dowier 
until  you  stand  out  on  it  at  sunrise." 

She  met  Dowie's  approach  half  way  and  slipped  her 
arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her  several  times. 
Dowie  had  for  a  moment  quailed  before  a  thought  that 
she  looked  too  much  like  a  young  angel,  but  her  arms 
held  close  and  her  kisses  were  warm  and  human. 

"Well,  well !"  Dowie's  pats  on  her  shoulder  took  cour 
age.  "That's  a  good  sign — to  get  up  and  dress  your 
self  and  go  into  the  open  air.  It  would  give  you  an 
appetite  if  anything  would." 

"Perhaps  I  can  eat  two  eggs  this  morning,"  with  a 
pretty  laugh.  "Wouldn't  that  be  wonderful  ?"  and  she 
took  off  her  hat  and  laid  it  aside  on  the  lounge  as  if  she 
meant  to  go  out  again  soon. 

Dowie  tried  not  to  watch  her  too  obviously,  but  she 
could  scarcely  keep  her  eyes  from  her.  She  knew  that 
she  must  not  ask  her  questions  at  the  risk  of  "losing  an 
advantage."  She  had,  in  fact,  never  been  one  of  the 
women  who  must  ask  questions.  There  was  however 
something  eerie  in  remembering  her  queer  feeling  about 
the  crying  of  the  wind,  silly  though  she  had  decided  it 
to  be,  and  something  which  made  it  difficult  to  go  about 
all  day  knowing  nothing  but  seeing  strange  signs.  She 
had  been  more  afraid  for  Robin  than  she  would  have 
admitted  even  to  herself.  And  when  the  girl  sat  down 
at  the  table  by  the  window  overlooking  the  moor  and  ate 
her  breakfast  without  effort  or  distaste,  it  was  far  from 


240  KOBIlSr 

«asy  to  look  quite  as  if  she  had  been  doing  it  every 
morning. 

Then  there  was  the  look  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  was 
either  listening  to  something  or  remembering  it.  She 
went  out  twice  during  the  day  and  she  carried  it  with 
her  even  when  she  talked  of  other  things.  Dowie  saw 
it  specially  when  she  lay  down  on  the  big  lounge  to  rest. 
But  she  did  not  lie  down  often  or  long  at  a  time.  It 
was  as  though  she  was  no  longer  unnaturally  tired  and 
languid.  She  did  little  things  for  herself,  moving  about 
naturally,  and  she  was  pleased  when  a  messenger  brought 
flowers,  explaining  that  his  lordship  had  ordered  that 
they  should  be  sent  every  other  day  from  the  nearest 
town.  She  spent  an  hour  filling  crystal  bowls  and  clear 
slim  vases  with  them  and  the  look  never  left  her. 

But  she  said  nothing  until  she  went  out  with  Dowie 
at  sunset  They  only  walked  for  a  short  time  and  they 
did  not  keep  to  the  road  but  went  on  to  the  moor  itself 
and  walked  among  the  heath  and  bracken.  After  a 
little  while  they  sat  down  and  gave  themselves  up  to  the 
vast  silence  with  here  and  there  the  last  evening  twitter 
of  a  bird  in  it.  The  note  made  the  stillness  greater. 
The  flame  of  the  sky  was  beyond  compare  and,  after  gaz 
ing  at  it  for  a  while,  Dowie  turned  a  slow  furtive  look  on 
Kobin. 

But  Eobin  was  looking  at  her  with  clear  soft  natural 
ness — loving  and  untroubled  and  kindly  sweet. 

"He  came  back,  Dowie.  He  came  again,"  she  said. 
And  her  voice  was  still  as  natural  as  the  good  woman 
had  ever  known  it. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII 

BUT  even  after  this  Dowie  did  not  ask  questions. 
She  only  watched  more  carefully  and  waited  to  be 
told  what  the  depths  of  her  being  most  yearned 
to  hear.  The  gradually  founded'  belief  of  her  care 
ful  prosaic  life  prevented  ease  of  mind  or  a  sense 
of  security.  She  could  not  be  certain  that  it  would 
be  the  part  of  wisdom  to  allow  herself  to  feel 
secure.  She  did  not  wish  to  arouse  Doctor  Ben- 
ton's  professional  anxiety  by  asking  questions  about 
Lady  Maureen  Darcy,  but,  by  a  clever  and  adroitly 
gradual  system  of  what  was  really  cross  examina 
tion  which  did  not  involve  actual  questions,  she 
drew  from  him  the  name  of  the  woman  who  had  been 
Lady  Maureen's  chief  nurse  when  the  worst  seemed 
impending.  It  was  by  fortunate  chance  the  name  of  a 
woman  she  had  once  known  well  during  a  case  of  danger 
ous  illness  in  an  important  household.  She  herself 
had  had  charge  of  the  nursery  and  Nurse  Darian  had 
liked  her  because  she  had  proved  prompt  and  intelli 
gent  in  an  alarming  crisis.  They  had  become  friends 
and  Dowie  knew  she  might  write  to  her  and  ask  for 
information  and  advice.  She  wrote  a  careful  respect 
ful  letter  which  revealed  nothing  but  that  she  was 
anxious  about  a  case  she  had  temporary  charge  of.  She 
managed  to  have  the  letter  posted  in  London  and  the 
answer  forwarded  to  her  from  there.  Nurse  Darian's 
reply  was  generously  full  for  a  hard-working  woman. 
It  answered  questions  and  was  friendly.  But  the 

241 


242  EOBIJST 

woman's  war  work  had  plainly  led  her  to  see  and  reflect 
upon  the  opening  up  of  new  and  singular  vistas. 

"What  we  hear  oftenest  is  that  the  whole  world  is 
somehow  changing/'  she  ended  by  saying.  "You  hear 
it  so  often  that  you  get  tired.  But  something  is  happen 
ing — something  strange — •  Even  the  doctors  find  them 
selves  facing  things  medical  science  does  not  explain. 
They  don't  like  it.  I  sometimes  think  doctors  hate 
change  more  than  anybody.  But  the  cleverest  and  big 
gest  ones  talk  together.  It's  this  looking  at  a  thing 
lying  on  a  bed  alive  and  talking  perhaps,  one  minute — 
and  gone  out  the  next,  that  sets  you  asking  yourself 
questions.  In  these  days  a  nurse  seems  to  see  nothing 
else  day  and  night.  You  can't  make  yourself  believe 
they  have  gone  far —  And  when  you  keep  hearing  sto 
ries  about  them  coming  back — knocking  on  tables,  writ 
ing  on  queer  boards — just  any  way  so  that  they  can  get  at 
those  they  belong  to — !  Well,  I  shouldn't  be  sure  my 
self  that  a  comforting  dream  means  that  a  girl's  mind's 
giving  away.  Of  course  a  nurse  is  obliged  to  watch — 
But  Lady  Maureen  found  something —  And  she  was 
going  mad  and  now  she  is  as  sane  as  I  am." 

Dowie  was  vaguely  supported  because  the  woman 
was  an  intelligent  person  and  knew  her  business 
thoroughly.  Nevertheless  one  must  train  one's  eyes  to 
observe  everything  without  seeming  to  do  so  at  all. 

Every  morning  when  the  weather  was  fine  Kobin 
got  up  early  and  went  out  on  the  moor  to  say  her 
prayers  and  listen  to  the  skylarks  singing. 

"When  I  stand  and  turn  my  face  up  to  the  sky — 
and  watch  one  going  higher  into  heaven — and  sing 
ing  all  the  time  without  stopping,"  she  said,  "I  feel 
as  if  the  singing  were  carrying  what  I  want  to  say 


ROBIN  243 

with  it.  Sometimes  he  goes  so  high  that  you  can't 
see  him  any  more —  He's  not  even  a  little  speck  in 
the  highest  sky —  Then  I  think  perhaps  he  has  gone 
in  and  taken  my  prayer  with  him.  But  he  always 
comes  back.  And  perhaps  if  I  could  understand  he 
could  tell  me  what  the  answer  is." 

She  ate  her  breakfast  each  day  and  was  sweetly 
faithful  to  her  promise  to  Dowie  in  every  detail. 
Dowie  used  to  think  that  she  was  like  a  child  who 
wanted  very  much  to  learn  her  lesson  well  and  follow 
every  rule. 

"I  want  to  be  good,  Dowie,"  she  said  once.  "I  should 
like  to  be  very  good.  I  am  so  grateful." 

Doctor  Benton  driving  up  the  moor  road  for  his 
daily  visits  made  careful  observation  of  every  detail  of 
her  case  and  pondered  in  secret.  The  alarming  thin 
ness  and  sharpening  of  the  delicate  features  was  he 
saw,  actually  becoming  less  marked  day  by  day;  the 
transparent  hands  were  less  transparent;  the  move 
ments  were  no  longer  languid. 

"She  spends  most  of  the  day  out  of  doors  when  the 
weather's  decent,"  Dowie  said.  "She  eats  what  I  give 
her.  And  she  sleeps." 

Doctor  Benton  asked  many  questions  and  the  an 
swers  given  seemed  to  provide  him  with  food  for  re 
flection. 

"Has  she  spoken  of  having  had  the  dream  again  ?"  he 
inquired  at  last. 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  Dowie's  brief  reply. 

"Did  she  say  it  was  the  same  dream?" 

"She  told  me  her  husband  had  come  back.  She  said 
nothing  more." 

"Has  she  told  you  that  more  than  once  ?" 


244  ROBIN 

"No,  sir.     Only  once  so  far." 

Doctor  Benton  looked  at  the  sensible  face  very  hard. 
He  hesitated  before  he  put  his  next  question. 

"But  you  think  she  has  seen  him  since  she  spoke 
to  you  ?  You  feel  that  she  might  speak  of  it  again — : 
at  almost  any  time?" 

"She  might,  sir,  and  she  might  not.  It  may  seem 
like  a  sacred  thing  to  her.  And  it's  no  business  of  mine 
to  ask  her  about  things  she'd  perhaps  rather  not  talk 
about." 

"Do  you  think  that  she  believes  that  she  sees  her 
husband  every  night  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  think,  sir,"  said  Dowie  in 
honourable  distress. 

"Well  neither  do  I  for  that  matter,"  Benton  answered 
brusquely.  "Neither  do  thousands  of  other  people  who 
want  to  be  honest  with  themselves.  Physically  the 
effect  of  this  abnormal  fancy  is  excellent.  If  this  goes 
on  she  will  end  by  being  in  a  perfectly  normal  condi 
tion." 

"That's  what  I'm  working  for,  sir,"  said  Dowie. 

Whereupon  Dr.  Benton  went  away  and  thought  still 
stranger  and  deeper  things  as  he  drove  home  over  the 
moor  road  which  twisted  through  the  heather. 


The  next  day's  post  delivered  by  Macaur  himself 
brought  as  it  did  weekly  a  package  of  books  and 
carefully  chosen  periodicals.  Robin  had,  before  this, 
not  been  equal  even  to  looking  them  over  and  Dowie  had 
arranged  them  neatly  on  shelves  in  the  Tower  room. 

To-day  when  the  package  was  opened  Robin  sat  down 
near  the  table  on  which  they  were  placed  and  began  to 
look  at  them. 


ROBIN  245 

Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  as  she  arranged  books 
decorously  on  a  shelf  Dowie  saw  the  still  transparent 
hand  open  first  one  book  and  then  another.  At  last 
it  paused  at  a  delicately  coloured  pamphlet.  It  was 
the  last  alluring  note  of  modern  advertisement,  sent  out 
by  a  firm  which  made  a  specialty  of  children's  outfits 
and  belongings.  It  came  from  an  elect  and  expensive 
shop  which  prided  itself  on  its  dainty  presentation  of 
small  beings  attired  in  entrancing  garments  such  as 
might  have  been  designed  for  fairies  and  elves. 

"If  she  begins  to  turn  over  the  pages  she'll  go  on. 
It'll  be  just  Nature,"  Dowie  yearned. 

The  awakening  she  had  thought  Nature  would  bring 
about  was  not  like  the  perilous  miracle  she  had  seen 
take  place  and  had  watched  tremulously  from  hour  to 
hour.  Dreams,  however  much  one  had  to  thank  God 
for  them,  were  not  exactly  "Nature."  They  were  not 
the  blessed  healing  and  strengthening  she  felt  familiar 
with.  You  were  never  sure  when  they  might  melt  away 
into  space  and  leave  only  emptiness  behind  them. 

"But  if  she  would  wake  up  the  other  way  it  would 
be  healthy — just  healthy  and  to  be  depended  upon/'  was 
her  thought.  Robin  turned  over  the  leaves  in  no  hur 
ried  way.  She  had  never  carelessly  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  her  picture  books  in  her  nursery.  As  she 
had  looked  at  her  picture  books  she  looked  at  this  one. 
There  were  pages  given  to  the  tiniest  and  most  exquisite 
things  of  all,  and  it  was  the  illustrations  of  these, 
Dowie's  careful  sidelong  eye  saw  she  had  first  been  at 
tracted  by. 

"These  are  for  very  little — ones  ?"  she  said  presently. 

"Yes,     For  the  new  ones,"  answered  Dowie. 

There  was  moment  or  so  of  silence. 

"How  little— how  little !"     Robin  said  softly.     She 


246  ROBIN 

rose  softly  and  went  to  her  couch  and  lay  down  on  it. 
She  was  very  quiet  and  Dowie  wondered  if  she  were 
thinking  or  if  she  were  falling  into  a  doze.  She  wished 
she  had  looked  at  the  pamphlet  longer.  As  the  weeks 
had  gone  by  Dowie  had  even  secretly  grieved  a  little 
at  her  seeming  unconsciousness  of  certain  tender  things. 
If  she  had  only  looked  at  it  a  little  longer. 


"Was  there  a  sound  of  movement  in  the  next  room  ?" 

The  thought  awakened  Dowie  in  the  night.  She  did 
not  know  what  the  hour  was,  but  she  was  sure  of  the 
sound  as  soon  as  she  was  fully  awake.  Robin  had  got 
up  and  was  crossing  the  corridor  to  the  Tower  room. 

"Does  she  want  something?  What  could  she  want? 
I  must  go  to  her." 

She  must  never  quite  lose  sight  of  her  or  let  her  be 
entirely  out  of  hearing.  Perhaps  she  was  walking  in 
her  sleep.  Perhaps  the  dream —  Dowie  was  a  little 
awed.  Was  he  with  her  ?  In  obedience  to  a  weird  im 
pulse  she  always  opened  a  window  in  the  Tower  room 
every  night  before  going  to  bed.  She  had  left  it  open 
to-night. 

It  was  still  open  when  she  entered  the  room  herself. 

There  was  nothing  unusual  in  the  aspect  of  the  place 
but  that  Robin  was  there  and  it  was  just  midnight. 
She  was  not  walking  in  her  sleep.  She  was  awake  and 
standing  by  the  table  with  the  pamphlet  in  her  hand. 

"I  couldn't  go  to  sleep/'  she  said.  "I  kept  think 
ing  of  the  little  things  in  this  book.  I  kept  seeing 
them." 

"That's  quite  natural,"  Dowie  answered.  "Sit  down 
and  look  at  them  a  bit  That'll  satisfy  you  and  you'll 
sleep  easy  enough.  I  must  shut  the  window  for  you." 


ROBIN  247 

She  shut  the  window  and  moved  a  book  or  so  as  if 
such  things  were  usually  done  at  midnight.  She  went 
about  in  a  quiet  matter-of-fact  way  which  was  even 
gentler  than  her  customary  gentleness  because  in  these 
days,  while  trying  to  preserve  a  quite  ordinary  de 
meanour,  she  felt  as  though  she  must  move  as  one 
would  move  in  making  sure  that  one  would  not  startle 
a  bird  one  loved. 

Robin  sat  and  looked  at  the  pictures.  When  she 
turned  a  page  and  looked  at  it  she  turned  it  again  and 
looked  at  it  with  dwelling  eyes.  Presently  she  ceased 
turning  pages  and  sat  still  with  the  book  open  on 
her  lap  as  if  she  were  thinking  not  only  of  what  she 
held  but  of  something  else. 

When  her  eyes  lifted  to  meet  Bowie's  there  was  a 
troubled  wondering  look  in  them. 

"It's  so  strange — I  never  seemed  to  think  of  it 
before,"  the  words  came  slowly.  "I  forgot  because  I 
was  always — remembering." 

"You'll  think  now,"  Dowie  answered.  "It's  only 
Nature." 

"Yes — it's  only  Nature." 

The  touch  of  her  hand  on  the  pamphlet  was  a  sort  of 
caress — it  was  a  touch  which  clung. 

"Dowie,"  timidly.  "I  want  to  begin  to  make  some 
little  clothes  like  these.  Do  you  think  I  can  ?" 

"Well,  my  dear,"  answered  Dowie  composedly — no 
less  so  because  it  was  past  midnight  and  the  stillness 
of  moor  and  deserted  castle  rooms  was  like  a  presence 
in  itself.  "I  taught  you  to  sew  very  neatly  before  you 
were  twelve.  You  liked  to  do  it  and  you  learned  to 
make  beautiful  small  stitches.  And  Mademoiselle 
taught  you  to  do  fine  embroidery.  She'd  learned  it  in  a 
convent  herself  and  I  never  saw  finer  work  anywhere." 


248  ROBIN 

"I  did  like  to  do  it,"  said  Robin.  "I  never  seemed 
to  get  tired  of  sitting  in  my  little  chair  in  the  bay  win 
dow  where  the  flowers  grew,  and  making  tiny  stitches." 

"You  had  a  gift  for  it.  Not  all  girls  have,"  said 
Dowie.  "Sometimes  when  you  were  embroidering  a 
flower  you  didn't  want  to  leave  it  to  take  your  walk." 

"I  am  glad  I  had  a  gift,"  Eobin  took  her  up.  "You 
see  I  want  to  make  these  little  things  with  my  own  hands. 
I  don't  want  them  sent  up  from  London.  I  don't 
want  them  bought.  Look  at  this,  Dowie." 

Dowie  went  to  her  side.  Her  heart  was  quickening 
happily  as  it  beat. 

Eobin  touched  a  design  with  her  finger. 

"I  should  like  to  begin  by  making  that,"  she  sug 
gested.  "Do  you  think  that  if  I  bought  one  for  a  pat 
tern  I  could  copy  it?" 

Dowie  studied  it  with  care. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "You  could  copy  it  and  make  as 
many  more  as  you  liked.  They  need  a  good  many." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Robin.  "I  should  like  to 
make  a  great  many."  The  slim  fingers  slid  over  the 
page.  "I  should  like  to  make  that  one — and  that — 
and  that."  Her  face,  bent  over  the  picture,  wore  its 
touching  young  look  thrilled  with  something  new. 
"They  are  so  pretty — they  are  so  pretty,"  she  mur 
mured  like  a  dove. 

"They're  the  prettiest  things  in  the  world,"  Dowie 
said.  "There  never  was  anything  prettier." 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  make  them  and  to  know 
all  the  time  you  are  putting  in  the  tiny  stitches,  that 
they  are  for  something  little — and  warm — and 
alive!" 

"Those  that  have  done  it  never  forget   it,"   said 


ROBIN  249 

Dowie.     Kobin  lifted  her  face,  but  her  hands  still  held 
the  book  with  the  touch  which  clung. 

"I  am  beginning  to  realise  what  a  strange  life  mine 
has  been,"  she  said.  "Don't  you  think  it  has,  Dowie  ? 
I  haven't  known  things.  I  didn't  know  what  mothers 
were.  I  never  knew  another  child  until  I  met  Donal 
in  the  Gardens.  No  one  had  ever  kissed  me  until  he 
did.  When  I  was  older  I  didn't  know  anything  about 
love  and  marrying — really.  It  seemed  only  something 
one  read  about  in  books  until  Donal  came.  You  and 
Mademoiselle  made  me  happy,  but  I  was  like  a  little 
nun."  She  paused  a  moment  and  then  said  thought 
fully,  "Do  you  know,  Dowie,  I  have  never  touched  a 
baby  ?" 

"I  never  thought  of  it  before,"  Dowie  answered  with 
a  slightly  caught  breath,  "but  I  believe  you  never  have." 

The  girl  leaned  forward  and  her  own  light  breath 
came  a  shade  more  quickly,  and  the  faint  colour  on 
her  cheek  flickered  into  a  sweeter  warm  tone. 

"Are  they  very  soft,  Dowie?"  she  asked — and  the 
asking  was  actually  a  wistful  thing.  "When  you  hold 
them  do  they  feel  very  light — and  soft — and  warm? 
When  you  kiss  them  isn't  it  something  like  kissing  a 
little  flower  ?" 

"That's  what  it  is,"  said  Dowie  firmly  as  one  who 
knows.  "A  baby  that's  loved  and  taken  care  of  is  just 
nothing  but  fine  soft  lawns  and  white  downiness  with 
the  scent  of  fresh  violets  under  leaves  in  the  rain." 

A  vaguely  dreamy  smile  touched  Robin's  face  and  she 
bent  over  the  pictures  again. 

"I  felt  as  if  they  must  be  like  that  though  I  had  never 
held  one,"  she  murmured.  "And  Donal — told  me." 
She  did  not  say  when  he  had  told  her  but  Dowie  knew. 


2t>0 

And  unearthly  as  the  thing  was,  regarded  from  her 
standpoint,  she  was  not  frightened,  because  she  said 
mentally  to  herself,  what  was  happening  was  down 
right  healthy  and  no  harm  could  come  of  it.  She  felt 
safe  and  her  mind  was  at  ease  even  when  Robin  shut 
the  little  hook  and  placed  it  on  the  table  again. 

•"I'll  go  to  bed  again,"  she  said.     "I  shall  sleep  now." 

"To  be  sure  you  will,"  Dowie  said. 

And  they  went  out  of  the  Tower  room  together,  but 
before  she  followed  her  Dowie  slipped  aside  and  quietly 
opened  -the  window. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

COOMBE  HOUSE  had  been  transformed  into  one 
of  the  most  practical  nursing  homes  in  London. 
The  celebrated  ballroom  and  picture  gallery 
were  filled  with  cots ;  a  spacious  bedroom  had  become  a 
perfectly  equipped  operating  room ;  nurses  and  doctors 
moved  everywhere  with  quiet  swiftness.  Things  were 
said  to  be  marvellously  well  done  because  Lord  Coombe 
himself  held  reins  which  diplomatically  guided  and 
restrained  amateurishness  and  emotional  infelicities. 

He  spent  most  of  his  time,  when  he  was  in  the  house, 
in  the  room  on  the  entrance  floor  where  Mademoiselle 
had  found  him  when  she  had  come  to  him  in  her  search 
for  Robin. 

He  had  faced  ghastly  hours  there  as  the  war  news 
struck  its  hideous  variant  note  from  day  to  day.  Every 
sound  which  rolled  through  the  street  had  its  meaning 
for  him,  and  there  were  few  which  were  not  terrible. 
They  all  meant  inhuman  struggle,  inhuman  suffering, 
inhuman  passions,  and  wounds  or  death.  He  carried 
an  unmoved  face  and  a  well-held  head  through  the 
crowded  thoroughfares.  The  men  in  the  cots  in  his 
picture  gallery  and  his  ballroom  were  the  better  for  the 
outward  calm  he  brought  when  he  sat  and  talked  to 
them,  but  he  often  hid  a  mad  fury  in  his  breast  or  a 
heavy  and  sick  fatigue. 

Even  in  London  a  man  saw  and  heard  and  was  able, 
if  he  had  an  imagination,  to  visualise  too  much  to  re 
main  quite  normal.  He  had  seen  what  was  left  of 

251 


252  KOBIN 

strong  men  brought  back  from  the  Front,  men  who 
could  scarcely  longer  be  counted  as  really  living  human 
beings;  he  had  talked  to  men  on  leave  who  had  a 
hideous  hardness  in  their  haggard  eyes  and  who  did  not 
know  that  they  gnawed  at  their  lips  sometimes  as  they 
told  the  things  they  had  seen.  He  saw  the  people  go 
ing  into  the  churches  and  chapels.  He  sometimes 
went  into  such  places  himself  and  he  always  found  there 
huddled  forms  kneeling  in  the  pews,  even  when  no 
service  was  being  held.  Sometimes  they  were  men, 
sometimes  women,  and  often  they  writhed  and  sobbed 
horribly.  He  did  not  know  why  he  went  in ;  his  going 
seemed  only  part  of  some  surging  misery. 

He  heard  weird  stories  again  and  again  of  occult  hap 
penings.  He  had  been  told  all  the  details  of  Lady 
Maureen's  case  and  of  a 'number  of  other  cases  some 
what  resembling  it.  He  was  of  those  who  have  ad 
vanced  through  experience  to  the  point  where  entire 
disbelief  in  anything  is  not  easy.  This  was  the  more 
so  because  almost  all  previously  accepted  laws  had  been 
shaken  as  by  an  earthquake.  He  had  fallen  upon  a 
new  sort  of  book  drifting  about.  He  had  had  such  books 
put  into  his  hands  by  acquaintances,  some  of  whom  were 
of  the  impressionable  hysteric  order,  but  many  of  whom 
were  as  analytically  minded  as  himself.  He  found 
much  of  such  literature  in  the  book  shops.  He  began 
to  look  over  the  best  written  and  ended  by  reading  them 
with  deep  attention.  He  was  amazed  to  discover  that 
for  many  years  profoundly  scientific  men  had  been  seri 
ously  investigating  and  experimenting  with  mysteries 
unexplainable  by  the  accepted  laws  of  material  science. 
They  had  discussed,  argued  and  written  grave  books 
upon  them.  They  had  been  doing  all  this  before  any 
society  for  psychical  research  had  founded  itself  and 


ROBIN  253 

tho  intention  of  new  logic  was  to  be  scientific  rather 
than  psychological.  They  had  written  books,  scattered 
through  the  years,  on  mesmerism,  hypnosis,  abnormal 
mental  conditions,  the  powers  of  suggestion,  even  un 
explored  dimensions  and  in  modern  days  psychothera- 
peutics. 

''What  has  amazed  me  is  my  own  ignorance  of  the 
prolonged  and  serious  nature  of  the  investigation  of  an 
astonishing  subject,"  he  said  in  talking  with  the  Duch 
ess.  "To  realise  that  analytical  minds  have  been  doing 
grave  work  of  which  one  has  known  nothing  is  an 
actual  shock  to  one's  pride.  I  suppose  the  tendency 
would  have  been  to  pooh-pooh  it.  The  cheap,  modern 
popular  form  is  often  fantastic  and  crude,  but  there  re 
mains  the  fact  that  it  all  contains  truths  not  to  be  ex 
plained  by  the  rules  we  have  always  been  familiar 
with." 

The  Duchess  had  read  the  book  he  had  brought  her 
and  held  it  in  her  hands. 

"Perhaps  the  time  has  come,  in  which  we  are  to 
learn  the  new  ones,"  she  said. 

"Perhaps  we  are  being  forced  to  learn  them — as  a 
result  of  our  pooh-poohing,"  was  his  answer.  "Some 
of  us  may  learn  that  clear-cut  disbelief  is  at  least  in 
discreet." 

Therefore  upon  a  certain  morning  he  sat  long  in  re 
flection  over  a  letter  which  had  arrived  from  Dowie. 
He  read  it  a  number  of  times. 

"I  don't  know  what  your  lordship  may  think," 
Dowie  said  and  he  felt  she  held  herself  with  a  tight 
rein.  "If  I  may  say  so,  it's  what's  going  to  come  out 
of  it  that  matters  and  not  what  any  of  us  think  of  it. 
So  far  it  seems  as  if  a  miracle  had  happened.  About  a 


254  EOBIN 

week  ago  she  wakened  in  the  morning  looking  as  I'd 
been  afraid  she'd  never  look  again.  There  was  actually 
colour  in  her  thin  little  face  that  almost  made  it  look 
not  so  thin.  There  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  quite 
startled  me.  She  lay  on  her  bed  and  smiled  like  a 
child  that's  suddenly  put  out  of  pain.  She  said — 
quite  quiet  and  natural — that  she'd  seen  her  husband. 
She  said  he  had  come  and  talked  to  her  a  long  time  and 
that  it  was  not  a  dream,  and  he  was  not  an  angel — 
he  was  himself.  At  first  I  was  terrified  by  a  dreadful 
thought  that  her  poor  young  mind  had  given  way.  But 
she  had  no  fever  and  she  was  as  sweet  'and  sensible  as  if 
she  was  talking  to  her  Dowie  in  her  own  nursery.  And, 
my  lord,  this  is  what  does  matter.  She  sat  up  and  ate 
Tier  breakfast  and  said  she  would  take  a  walk  with  me. 
And  walk  she  did — stronger  and  better  than  I'd  have  be 
lieved.  She  had  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  glass  of  milk  and 
a  fresh  egg  and  a  slice  of  hot  buttered  toast.  That's 
what  I  hold  on  to,  my  lord — without  any  thinking.  I 
daren't  write  about  it  at  first  because  I  didn't  trust  it  to 
last.  But  she  has  wakened  in  the  same  way  every  morn 
ing  since.  And  she's  eaten  the  bits  of  nice  meals  I've 
put  before  her.  I've  been  careful  not  to  put  her  ap 
petite  off  by  giving  her  more  than  a  little  at  a  time. 
And  she's  slept  like  a  baby  and  walked  every  day. 
I  believe  she  thinks  she  sees  Captain  Muir  every  night. 
I  wouldn't  ask  questions,  but  she  spoke  of  it  once  again 
to  me. 

"Your  obedient  servant, 
SAEAH  A.-NN  DOWSON." 

Lord  Coombe  sat  in  interested  reflection.     He  felt 
•curiously    uplifted    above   the    rolling   sounds    in   the 


KOBIN  255 

street  and  the  headlines  of  the  pile  of  newspapers  on  the 
table. 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  the  tea  and  egg  and  buttered 
toast  she  would  have  been  sure  the  poor  child  was  mad." 
He  thought  it  out.  "An  egg  and  a  slice  of  buttered 
toast  guarantee  even  spiritual  things.  Why  not  ?  We 
are  material  creatures  who  have  only  material  sight  and 
touch  and  taste  to  employ  as  arguments.  I  suppose 
that  is  why  tables  are  tipped  and  banjos  fly  about  for 
beginners.  It's  because  we  cannot  see  other  things, 
and  what  we  cannot  see —  Oh !  fools  that  we  are !  The 
child  said  he  was  not  an  angel — he  was  himself.  Why 
not  ?  Where  did  he  come  from  ?  Personally  I  believe 
that  he  came." 


CHAPTEE  XXX 

IT   was   Lord   Coombe  who   sent   the   book,"   said 
Kobin. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  Tower  room,  watching 
Dowie  open  the  packages  which  had  come  from  London. 
She  herself  had  opened  the  one  which  held  the  models 
and  she  was  holding  a  tiny  film  of  lawn  and  fine  em 
broidery  in  her  hands.  Dowie  could  see  that  she  was 
quite  unconscious  that  she  loosely  held  it  against  her 
breast  as  if  she  were  nursing  it. 

"It's  his  lordship's  way  to  think  of  things,"  the  dis 
creet  answer  came  impersonally. 

Robin  looked  slowly  round  the  small  and  really  quite 
wonderful  room. 

"You  know  I  said  that,  the  first  night  we  came  here." 

"Yes?"  Dowie  answered. 

Robin  turned  her  eyes  upon  her.  They  were  no 
longer  hollowed,  but  they  still  looked  much  too  large. 

"Dowie,"  she  said.     "He  knows  things." 

"He  always  did,"  said  Dowie.  "Some  do  and  some 
don't." 

"He  Tcnows  things — as  Donal  does.  The  secret  things 
you  can't  talk  about — the  meaning  of  things." 

She  went  on  as  if  she  were  remembering  bit  by  bit. 
"When  we  were  in  the  Wood  in  the  dark,  he  said  the 
first  thing  that  made  my  mind  begin  to  move — almost  to 
think.  That  was  because  he  Tcnew.  Knowing  things 
made  him  send  the  book." 

The  fact  was  that  he  knew  much  of  which  it  was  not 

256 


KOBIN  257 

possible  for  him  to  speak,  and  in  passing  a  shop  win 
dow  he  had  been  fantastically  arrested  by  a  mere  pair 
of  small  sleeves — the  garment  to  which  they  belonged 
having  by  chance  so  fallen  that  they  seemed  to  be  tiny 
arms  holding  themselves  out  in  surrendering  appeal. 
They  had  held  him  a  moment  or  so  staring  and  then 
he  had  gone  into  the  shop  and  asked  for  their  cata 
logue. 

aYes,  he  knew,"  Dowie  replied. 

A  letter  had  been  written  to  London  signed  by  Dowie 
and  the  models  and  patterns  had  been  sent  to  the  vil 
lage  and  brought  to  the  castle  by  Jock  Macaur.  Later 
there  had  come  rolls  of  fine  flannel  and  lawn,  with  gos 
samer  thread  and  fairy  needles  and  embroidery  floss. 
Then  the  sewing  began. 

Doctor  Benton  had  gradually  begun  to  look  forward 
to  his  daily  visits  with  an  interest  stimulated  by  a 
curiosity  become  eager.  The  most  casual  looker-on 
might  have  seen  the  change  taking  place  in  his  patient 
day  by  day  and  he  was  not  a  casual  looker-on.  Was 
the  improvement  to  be  relied  upon  ?  Would  the  mys 
terious  support  suddenly  fail  them  ? 

"What  in  God's  name  should  we  do  if  it  did  ?"  he 
broke  out  unconsciously  aloud  one  day  when  Dowie  and 
he  were  alone  together. 

"If  it  tlid  what,  sir?"  she  asked. 

"If  it  stopped — the  dream?" 

Dowie  understood.  By  this  time  she  knew  that, 
when  he  asked  questions,  took  notes  and  was  profes 
sionally  exact,  he  had  ceased  to  think  of  Robin  merely 
as  a  patient.  She  had  touched  him  in  some  unusual 
way  which  had  drawn  him  within  the  circle  of  her 
innocent  woe.  He  was  under  the  spell  of  her  pathetic 
youngness  which  made  Dowie  herself  feel  as  if  they 


258  ROBIN 

were  watching  over  a  child  called  upon  to  bear  some 
thing  it  was  unnatural  for  a  child  to  endure. 

"It  won't  stop,"  she  said  obstinately,  but  she  lost  her 
ruddy  colour  because  she  was  not  sure. 

But  after  the  sewing  began  there  grew  up  within 
her  a  sort  of  courage.  A  girl  whose  material  embodi 
ment  has  melted  away  until  she  has  worn  the  aspect  of 
a  wraith  is  not  restored  to  normal  bloom  in  a  week. 
But  what  Dowie  seemed  to  see  was  the  lamp  of  life  re 
lighted  and  the  first  flickering  flame  strengthening  to 
a  glow.  The  hands  which  fitted  together  on  the  table 
in  the  Tower  room  delicate  puzzles  in  bits  of  lawn  and 
paper,  did  not  in  these  days  tremble  with  weakness. 
Instead  of  the  lost  look  there  had  returned  to  the  young 
doe's  eyes  the  pretty  trusting  smile.  The  girl  seemed 
to  smile  as  if  to  herself  nearly  all  the  time,  Dowie 
thought,  and  often  she  broke  into  a  happy  laugh  at  her 
own  small  blunders — and  sometimes  only  at  the  sweet 
littleness  of  the  things  she  was  making. 

One  fact  revealed  itself  clearly  to  Dowie,  which  was 
that  she  had  lost  all  sense  of  the  aspect  which  the  dream 
must  wear  to  others  than  herself.  This  was  because 
there  had  been  no  others  than  Dowie  who  had  uttered  no 
suggestion  of  doubt  and  had  never  touched  upon  the 
subject  unless  it  had  been  first  broached  by  Robin  her 
self.  She  had  hidden  her  bewilderment  and  anxieties 
and  had  outwardly  accepted  the  girl's  own  acceptance 
of  the  situation. 

Of  the  incident  of  the  sewing  Lord  Coombe  had  been 
informed  later  with  other  details. 

"She  sits  and  sews  and  sews,"  wrote  Dowie.  "She 
sewed  beautifully  even  before  she  was  out  of  the  nursery. 
I  have  never  seen  a  picture  of  a  little  saint  sewing.  If 
I  had,  perhaps  I  should  say  she  looked  like  it" 


KOBIN  259 

Coombe  read  the  letter  to  his  old  friend  at  Eaton 
Square. 

There  was  a  pause  as  he  refolded  it.  After  the 
silence  he  added  as  out  of  deep  thinking,  "I  wish  that  I 
could  see  her." 

"So  do  I,"  the  Duchess  said.  "So  do  I.  But  if  I 
were  to  go  to  her,  questioning  would  begin  at  once." 

"My  going  to  Darreuch  would  attract  no  attention. 
It  never  did  after  the  first  year.  But  she  has  not  said 
she  wished  to  see  me.  I  gave  my  word.  I  shall  never 
see  her  again  unless  she  asks  me  to  come.  She  does 
not  need  me.  She  has  Donal." 

"What  do  you  believe?"  she  asked. 

"What  do  you  believe  ?"  he  replied. 

After  a  moment  of  speculative  gravity  came  her  re- 

piy- 

"As  without  proof  I  believed  in  the  marriage,  so  with 
out  proof  I  believe  that  in  some  mysterious  way  he 
comes  to  her — God  be  thanked!" 

"So  do  I,"  said  Coombe.  "We  are  living  in  a  chang 
ing  world  and  new  things  are  happening.  I  do  not 
know  what  they  are,  but  they  shake  me  inwardly." 

"You  want  to  see  her  because — ?"  the  Duchess  put  it 
to  him. 

"Perhaps  I  am  changing  with  the  rest  of  the  world, 
or  it  may  be  that  instincts  which  have  always  been  part 
of  me  have  been  shaken  to  the  surface  of  my  being. 
Perhaps  I  was  by  nature  an  effusively  affectionate  and 
domestic  creature.  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  ever  ob 
served  any  signs  of  the  tendency,  but  it  may  have  lurked 
secretly  within  me." 

"It  caused  you  to  rescue  a  child  from  torment  and 
watch  over  its  helplessness  as  if  it  had  been  your  own 
flesh  and  blood,"  interposed  the  Duchess. 


260  KOBIN 

"It  may  have  been.  Who  knows?  And  now  the 
unnatural  emotional  upheaval  of  the  times  has  broken 
down  all  my  artificialities.  I  feel  old  and  tired — 
perhaps  childish.  Shrines  are  being  torn  down  and 
blown  to  pieces  all  over  the  world.  And  I  long  for 
a  quite  simple  shrine  to  cleanse  my  soul  before.  A 
white  little  soul  hidden  away  in  peace,  and  sitting  smil 
ing  over  her  sewing  of  small  garments  is  worth  making  a 
pilgrimage  to.  Do  you  remember  the  childish  purity 
of  her  eyelids?  I  want  to  see  them  dropped  down  as 
she  sews.  I  want  to  see  her." 

"Alixe — and  her  children — would  have  been  your 
shrine."  The  Duchess  thought  it  out  slowly. 

"Yes." 

He  was  the  last  of  men  to  fall  into  an  unconventional 
posture,  but  he  dropped  forward  in  his  seat,  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  his  forehead  in  his  hands. 

"If  she  lives  and  the  child  lives  I  shall  long  intol 
erably  to  see  them.  As  her  mother  seemed  to  live  in 
Alixe's  exquisite  body  without  its  soul,  so  Alixe's  soul 
seems  to  possess  this  child's  body.  Do  I  appear  to  be 
talking  nonsense?  Things  without  precedent  have  al 
ways  been  supposed  to  be  nonsense." 

"We  are  not  so  sure  of  that  as  we  used  to  be,"  com 
mented  the  Duchess. 

"I  shall  long  to  be  allowed  to  be  near  them,"  he  added. 
"But  I  may  go  out  of  existence  without  seeing  them  at 
all.  I  gave  my  word." 


CHAPTEK   XXXI 

AFTER  the  first  day  of  cutting  out  patterns  from 
the  models  and  finely  sewing  tiny  pieces  of  lawn 
together,  Dowie  saw  that,  before  going  to  her 
bedroom  for  the  night,  Robin  began  to  gather  together 
all  she  had  done  and  used  in  doing  her  work.  She  had 
ordered  from  London  one  of  the  pretty  silk-lined  lace- 
frilled  baskets  women  are  familiar  with,  and  she  neatly 
folded  and  laid  her  sewing  in  it.  She  touched  each 
thing  with  fingers  that  lingered ;  she  smoothed  and  once 
or  twice  patted  something.  She  made  exquisitely 
orderly  little  piles.  Her  down-dropped  white  lids 
quivered  with  joy  as  she  did  it.  When  she  lifted  them 
to  look  at  Dowie  her  eyes  were  like  those  of  a  stray 
young  spirit. 

"I  am  going  to  take  them  into  my  room,"  she  said. 
"I  shall  take  them  every  night.  I  want  to  keep  them 
on  a  chair  quite  near  me  so  that  I  can  put  out  my  hand 
and  touch  them." 

"Yes,  my  lamb,"  Dowie  agreed  cheerfully.  But  she 
knew  she  was  going  to  hear  something  else.  And  this 
would  be  the  third  time. 

"I  want  to  show  them  to  Donal."  The  very  perfec 
tion  of  her  naturalness  gave  Dowie  a  cold  chill,  even 
while  she  thanked  God.  She  had  shivered  inwardly 
when  she  had  opened  the  Tower  room  window,  and 
so  she  shivered  now  despite  her  serene  exterior.  A 
simple  unexalted  body  could  not  but  think  of  those  frag 
ments  which  were  never  even  found.  And  she,  stand- 

261 


262  KOBIN 

ing  there  with  her  lips  and  eyes  smiling,  just  like  any 
other  radiant  girl  mother  whose  young  husband  is  her 
lover,  enraptured  and  amazed  by  this  new  miracle  of 
hers! 

Kobin  touched  her  with  the  tip  of  her  finger. 

"It  can't  be  only  a  dream,  Dowie,"  she  said.  "He's 
too  real.  I  am  too  real.  We  are  too  happy."  She 
hesitated  a  second.  "If  he  were  here  at  Darreuch  in 
the  daytime — I  should  not  always  know  where  he  had 
been  when  he  was  away.  Only  his  coming  back  would 
matter.  He  can't  tell  me  now  just  where  he  comes 
from.  He  says  'Not  yet.'  But  he  comes.  Every 
night,  Dowie." 


Every  day  she  sewed  in  the  Tower  room,  her  white 
eyelids  drooping  over  her  work.  Each  night  the  basket 
was  carried  to  her  room.  And  each  day  Dowie  watched 
with  amazement  the  hollows  in  her  temples  and  cheeks 
and  under  her  eyes  fill  out,  the  small  bones  cover  them 
selves,  the  thinned  throat  grow  round  with  young  tissue 
and  smooth  with  satin  skin.  Her  hair  became  light 
curled  silk  again;  the  faint  colour  deepened  into  the 
Jacqueminot  glow  at  which  passers  by  had  turned  to 
look  in  the  street  when  she  was  little  more  than  a  baby. 
But  she  never  talked  of  the  dream.  The  third  time 
was  the  last  for  many  weeks. 

Between  Doctor  Benton  and  Dowie  there  grew  up  an 
increased  reserve  concerning  the  dream.  Never  before 
had  the  man  encountered  an  experience  which  so 
absorbed  him.  He  was  a  student  of  the  advanced  order. 
He  also  had  seen  the  books  which  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  Coombe — some  the  work  of  scientific  men — 
some  the  purely  commercial  outcome  of  the  need  of  the 


EOBIN  263 

hour  written  by  the  jackals  of  the  literary  profession. 
He  would  have  been  ready  to  sit  by  the  bedside  of  his 
patient  through  the  night  watching  over  her  sleep, 
holding  her  wrist  with  fingers  on  her  pulse.  Even  his 
most  advanced  thinking  involuntarily  harked  back  to 
pulse  and  temperature  and  blood  pressure.  The 
rapidity  of  the  change  taking  place  in  the  girl  was  abnor 
mal,  but  it  expressed  itself  physically  as  well  as  men 
tally.  How  closely  involved  physiology  and  psychology 
were  after  all !  Which  was  which  ?  Where  did  one 
end  and  the  other  begin  ?  Where  was  the  line  drawn  ? 
Was  there  a  line  at  all  ?  He  had  seen  no  chances  for 
the  apparently  almost  dying  young  thing  when  he  first 
met  her.  She  could  not  have  lived  through  what  lay 
before  her.  She  had  had  a  dream  which  she  believed 
was  real,  and,  through  the  pure  joy  and  comfort  of  it, 
the  life  forces  had  begun  to  flow  through  her  being  and 
combine  to  build  actual  firm  tissue  and  supply  blood 
cells.  The  results  were  physical  enough.  The  inexplic 
able  in  this  case  was  that  the  curative  agency  was  that 
she  believed  that  her  husband,  who  had  been  blown  to 
atoms  on  the  battle  field,  came  to  her  alive  each  night — 
talked  with  her — held  her  in  warm  arms.  Nothing  else 
had  aided  her.  And  there  you  were — thrown  upon 
occultism  and  what  not ! 

He  became  conscious  that,  though  he  would  have 
been  glad  to  question  Dowie  daily  and  closely,  a  certain 
reluctance  of  mind  held  him  back.  Also  he  realised 
that,  being  a  primitive  though  excellent  woman,  Dowie 
herself  was  secretly  awed  into  avoidance  of  the  subject. 
He  believed  that  she  knelt  by  her  bedside  each  night  in 
actual  fear,  but  faithfully  praying  that  for  some  months 
at  least  the  dream  might  be  allowed  to  go  on.  Had  not 
he  himself  involuntarily  said, 


264  ROBIN 

"She  is  marvellously  well.  We  have  nothing  to  fear 
if  this  continues." 

It  did  continue  and  her  bloom  became  a  thing  to  mar 
vel  at.  And  not  her  bloom  alone.  Her  strength  in 
creased  with  her  blooming  until  no  one  could  have  felt 
fear  for  or  doubt  of  her.  She  walked  upon  the  moor 
without  fatigue,  she  even  worked  in  a  garden*  Jock 
Macaur  had  laid  out  for  her  inside  the  ruined  walls  of 
what  had  once  been  the  castle's  banquet  hall.  So  much 
of  her  life  had  been  spent  in  London  that  wild  moor  and 
sky  and  the  growing  of  things  thrilled  her.  She  ran  in 
and  out  and  to  and  fro  like  a  little  girl.  There  seemed 
no  limit  to  the  young  vigour  that  appeared  day  by  day 
to  increase  rather  than  diminish. 

"It's  a  wonderful  thing  and  God  be  thankit,"  said 
Mrs.  Macaur. 

Only  Dowie  in  secret  trembled  sometimes  before  the 
marvel  of  her.  As  Doctor  Benton  had  imagined,  she 
prayed  forcefully. 

"Lord,  forgive  me  if  I  am  a  sinner — but  for  Christ's 
sake  don't  take  the  strange  thing  away  from  her  until 
she's  got  something  to  hold  on  to.  What  would  she 
do —  What  could  she !" 

Robin  came  into  the  Tower  room  on  a  fair  morning 
carrying  her  pretty  basket  as  she  always  did.  She  put 
it  down  on  its  table  and  went  and  stood  a  few  minutes 
at  a  window  looking  out.  The  back  of  her  neck,  Dowie 
realised,  was  now  as  slenderly  round  and  velvet  white 
as  it  had  been  when  she  had  dressed  her  hair  on  the  night 
of  the  Duchess'  dance.  Dowie  did  not  know  that  its 
loveliness  had  been  poor  George's  temporary  undoing; 
she  only  thought  of  it  as  a  sign  of  the  wonderful 
change.  It  had  been  waxen  pallid  and  had  shown 
piteous  hollows. 


EOBIX  265 

She  turned  about  and  spoke. 

"Dowie,  dear,  I  am  going  to  write  to  Lord  Coombe." 

Bowie's  heart  hastened  its  beat  and  she  herself  being 
conscious  of  the  fact,  hastened  to  answer  in  an  unex- 
cited  manner. 

"That'll  be  nice,  my  dear.  His  lordship'll  be  glad 
to  get  the  good  news  you  can  give  him." 

She  asked  herself  if  she  would  not  perhaps  tell  her 
something — something  which  would  make  the  fourth 
time. 

"Perhaps  he's  asked  her  to  do  it,"  she  thought. 

But  Robin  said  nothing  which  could  make  a  fourth 
time.  After  she  had  eaten  her  breakfast  she  sat  down 
and  wrote  a  letter.  It  did  not  seem  a  long  one  and 
when  she  had  finished  it  she  sent  it  to  the  post  by  Jock 
Macaur. 


There  had  been  dark  news  both  by  land  and  sea  that 
day,  and  Coombe  had  been  out  for  many  hours.  He 
did  not  return  to  Coombe  House  until  late  in  the  eve 
ning.  He  was  tired  almost  beyond  endurance,  and  his 
fatigue  was  not  merely  a  thing  of  muscle  and  nerve. 
After  he  sat  down  it  was  some  time  before  he  even 
glanced  at  the  letters  upon  his  writing  table. 

There  were  always  a  great  many  and  usually  a  number 
of  them  were  addressed  in  feminine  handwriting.  His 
hospital  and  other  war  work  brought  him  numerous 
letters  from  women.  Even  their  most  impatient  mas 
culine  opponents  found  themselves  admitting  that  the 
women  were  being  amazing. 

Coombe  was  so  accustomed  to  opening  such  letters 
that  he  felt  no  surprise  when  he  took  up  an  envelope 
without  official  lettering  upon  it,  and  addressed  in  a 


266  ROBIN 

girlish  hand.     Girls  were  being  as  amazing  as  older 
women. 

But  this  was  not  a  letter  about  war  work  or  Red  Cross 
efforts.  It  was  Robin's  letter.  It  was  not  long  and 
was  as  simple  as  a  school  girl's.  She  had  never  been 
clever — only  exquisite  and  adorable,  and  never  dull  or 
stupid. 

"Dear  Lord  Coombe, 

"You  were  kind  enough  to  say  that  you  would  come 
to  see  me  when  I  asked  you.  Please  will  you  come 
now  ?  I  hope  I  am  not  asking  you  to  take  a  long  jour 
ney  when  you  are  engaged  in  work  too  important  to 
leave.  If  I  am  please  pardon  me,  and  I  will  wait  until 
you  are  less  occupied. 

"Robin." 

That  was  all.  Coombe  sat  and  gazed  at  it  and  read 
it  several  times.  The  thing  which  had  always  touched 
him  most  in  her  was  her  simple  obedience  to  the  laws 
about  her.  Curiously  it  had  never  seemed  insipid — 
only  a  sort  of  lovely  desire  to  be  in  harmony  with  all 
near  her — things  and  people  alike.  It  had  been  an  in 
nocent  modesty  which  could  not  express  rebellion.  Her 
lifelong  repelling  of  himself  had  been  her  one  variation 
from  type.  Even  that  had  been  quiet  except  in  one 
demonstration  of  her  babyhood  when  she  had  obstinately 
refused  to  give  him  her  hand.  When  Fate's  self  had 
sprung  upon  her  with  a  wild-beast  leap  she  had  only 
lain  still  and  panted  like  a  young  fawn  in  the  clutch  of  a 
lion.  She  had  only  thought  of  Donal  and  his  child. 
He  remembered  the  eyes  she  had  lifted  to  his  own  when 
he  had  put  the  ring  on  her  finger  in  the  shadow-filled 
old  church — and  he  had  understood  that  she  was  think- 


KOBIST  207 

ing  of  the  warm  young  hand  clasp  and  the  glow  of  eyes 
she  had  looked  up  into  when  love  and  youth  had  stood 
in  his  place. 

The  phrasing  of  the  letter  brought  it  all  back.  His 
precision  of  mind  and  resolve  would  have  enabled  him 
to  go  to  his  grave  without  having  looked  on  her  face 
again — but  he  was  conscious  that  she  was  an  integral 
part  of  his  daily  thought  and  planning  and  that  he 
longed  inexpressibly  to  see  her.  He  sometimes  told 
himself  that  she  and  the  child  had  become  a  sort  of  obses 
sion  with  him.  He  believed  that  this  was  because  Alixe 
had  shown  the  same  soft  obedience  to  fate,  and  the  same 
look  in  her  sorrowful  young  eyes.  Alixe  had  been  then 
as  she  was  now — but  he  had  not  been  able  to  save  her. 
She  had  died  and  he  was  one  of  the  few  abnormal  male 
creatures  who  know  utter  loneliness  to  the  end  of  life 
because  of  utter  loss.  He  knew  such  things  were  not 
normal.  It  had  seemed  that  Robin  would  die,  though 
not  as  Alixe  did.  If  she  lived  and  he  might  watch  over 
her,  there  lay  hidden  in  the  back  of  his  mind  a  vague 
feeling  that  it  would  be  rather  as  though  his  care  of  all 
detail — his  power  to  palliate — to  guard — would  be 
near  the  semblance  of  the  tenderness  he  would  have 
shown  to  Alixe.  His  old  habit  of  mind  caused  him  to 
call  it  an  obsession,  but  he  admitted  he  was  obsessed. 

"I  want  to  see  her !"  he  thought. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MANY  other  thoughts  filled  his  mind  on  his 
railroad  journey  to  Scotland.  He  questioned 
himself  as  to  how  deeply  he  still  felt  the  im 
portance  of  there  coming  into  the  racked  world  a  Head 
of  the  House  of  Coombe,  how  strongly  he  was  still 
inspired  by  the  centuries  old  instinct  that  a  House  of 
Coombe  must  continue  to  exist  as  part  of  the  bulwarks 
of  England.  The  ancient  instinct  still  had  its  power, 
but  he  was  curiously  awakening  to  a  slackening  of  the 
bonds  which  caused  a  man  to  specialise.  It  was  a 
reluctant  awakening — he  himself  had  no  part  in  the 
slackening.  The  upheaval  of  the  whole  world  had  done 
it  and  of  the  world  England  herself  was  a  huge  part — 
small,  huge,  obstinate,  fighting  England.  Bereft  of  her 
old  stately  beauties,  her  picturesque  splendours  of  habit 
and  custom,  he  could  not  see  a  vision  of  her,  and  owned 
himself  desolate  and  homesick.  He  was  tired.  So 
many  men  and  women  were  tired — worn  out  with  think 
ing,  fearing,  holding  their  heads  up  while  their  hearts 
were  lead.  When  all  was  said  and  done,  when  all  was 
over,  what  would  the  new  England  want — what  would 
she  need  ?  And  England  was  only  a  part.  What  would 
the  ravaged  world  need  as  it  lay — quiet  at  last — in  ruins 
physical,  moral  and  mental?  He  had  no  answer. 
Wiser  men  than  he  had  no  answer.  Only  time  would 
tell.  But  the  commonest  brain  cells  in  the  thickest 
skull  could  argue  to  the  end  which  proved  that  only 
men  and  women  could  do  the  work  to  be  done.  The 

268 


KOBIN  269 

task  would  be  one  for  gods,  or  demigods,  or  supermen 
— but  there  remained  so  far  only  men  and  women  to 
face  it — to  rebuild,  to  reinspire  with  life,  to  heal  un 
earthly  gaping  wounds  of  mind  and  soul.  Each  man 
or  woman  born  strong  and  given  the  chance  to  increase 
in  vigour  which  would  build  belief  in  life  and  living, 
in  a  future,  was  needed  as  breath  and  air  are  needed 
— even  such  an  one  as  in  the  past  would  have  wielded 
a  sort  of  unearned  sceptre  as  a  Head  of  the  House  of 
Coombe.  A  man  born  a  blacksmith,  if  he  were  of 
like  quality,  would  meet  equally  the  world's  needs, 
but  each  would  be  doing  in  his  way  his  part  of  that 
work  which  it  seemed  to-day  only  demigod  and  super 
man  could  fairly  confront. 

There  was  time  for  much  thinking  in  long  hours 
spent  shut  in  a  railroad  carriage  and  his  mind  was, 
in  these  days,  not  given  to  letting  him  rest. 

He  had  talked  with  many  men  back  from  the  Front 
on  leave  and  he  had  always  noted  the  marvel  of  both 
minds  and  bodies  at  the  relief  from  strain — from 
maddening  noise,  from  sights  of  death  and  horror,  from 
the  needs  of  decency  and  common  comfort  and  clean 
liness  which  had  become  unheard  of  luxury.  London, 
which  to  the  Londoner  seemed  caught  in  the  tumult 
and  turmoil  of  war,  was  to  these  men  rest  and  peace. 

Coombe  felt,  when  he  descended  at  the  small  isolated 
station  and  stood  looking  at  the  climbing  moor,  that 
he  was  like  one  of  those  who  had  left  the  roar  of  battle 
behind  and  reached  utter  quiet.  London  was  a  world's 
width  away  and  here  the  War  did  not  exist.  In  Flan 
ders  and  in  France  it  filled  the  skies  with  thunders  and 
drenched  the  soil  with  blood.  But  here  it  was  not. 

The  partly  rebuilt  ruin  of  Darreuch  rose  at  last  be 
fore  his  view  high  on  the  moor  as  he  drove  up  the 


270  ROBIN 

winding  road.  The  space  and  the  blue  sky  above  and 
behind  it  made  it  seem  the  embodiment  of  remote  still 
ness.  Nothing  had  reached  nor  could  touch  it.  It  did 
not  know  that  green  fields  and  deep  woods  were  strewn 
with  dead  and  mangled  youth  and  all  it  had  meant 
of  the  world's  future.  Its  crumbled  walls  and  re 
maining  grey  towers  stood  calm  in  the  clear  air  and 
birds'  nests  were  hidden  safely  in  their  thick  ivy. 

Kobin  was  there  and  each  night  she  believed  that 
a  dead  man  came  to  her  a  seeming  living  being.  He 
was  not  like  Dowie,  but  his  realisation  of  the  mystery 
of  this  thing  touched  his  nerves  as  a  wild  unexplain- 
able  sound  heard  in  the  darkness  at  midnight  might 
have  done.  He  wondered  if  he  should  see  some  look 
which  was  not  quite  normal  in  her  eyes  and  hear  some 
unearthly  note  in  her  voice.  Physically  the  effect,  upon 
her  had  been  good,  but  might  he  not  be  aware  of  the 
presence  of  some  mental  sign  ? 

"I  think  you'll  be  amazed  when  you  see  her,  my 
lord,"  said  Dowie,  who  met  him.  "I  am  myself,  every 
day." 

She  led  him  up  to  the  Tower  room  and  when  he  en 
tered  it  Robin  was  sitting  by  a  window  sewing  with 
her  eyelids  dropped  as  he  had  pictured  them.  The 
truth  was  that  Dowie  had  not  previously  announced 
him  because  she  had  wanted  him  to  come  upon  just 
this. 

Robin  rose  from  her  chair  and  laid  her  bit  of  sew 
ing  aside.  For  a  moment  he  almost  expected  her  to 
make  the  little  curtsey  Mademoiselle  had  taught  her 
to  make  when  older  people  came  into  the  schoolroom. 
She  looked  so  exactly  as  she  had  looked  before  life 
had  touched  her.  There  was  very  little  change  in 
her  girlish  figure;  the  child  curve  of  her  cheek  had 


ROBIN  271 

returned;  the  Jacqueminot  rose  glowed  on  it  and  her 
eyes  were  liquid  wonders  of  trust.  She  came  to  him 
holding  out  both  hands. 

"Thank  you  for  coming/'  she  said  in  her  pretty  way. 
"Thank  you,  Lord  Coombe,  for  coming." 

"Thank  you,  my  child,  for  asking  me  to  come,"  he 
answered  and  he  feared  that  his  voice  was  not  wholly 
steady. 

There  was  no  mystic  sign  to  be  seen  about  her.  The 
only  mystery  was  in  her  absolutely  blooming  health 
and  naturalness  and  in  the  gentle  and  clear  happiness 
of  her  voice  and  eyes.  She  was  not  tired;  she  was 
not  dragged  or  anxious  looking  as  he  had  seen  even 
fortunate  young  wives  and  mothers  at  times.  There 
actually  flashed  back  upon  him  the  morning,  months 
ago,  when  he  had  met  her  in  the  street  and  said  to 
himself  that  she  was  like  a  lovely  child  on  her  birthday 
with  all  her  gifts  about  her.  Her  radiance  had  been 
quiet  even  then  because  she  was  always  quiet. 

She  led  him  to  a  seat  near  her  window  and  she  sat 
by  him. 

"I  put  this  chair  here  for  you  because  it  is  so  lovely 
to  look  out  at  the  moor,"  she  said. 

That  moved  him  to  begin  with.  She  had  been  think 
ing  simply  and  kindly  of  him  even  before  he  came.  He 
had  always  been  prepared  for,  waited  upon  either  with 
flattering  attentions  or  ceremonial  service,  but  the  quiet 
pretty  things  mothers  and  sisters  and  wives  did  had 
not  been  part  of  his  life  and  he  had  always  noticed  and 
liked  them  and  sometimes  wondered  that  most  men 
received  them  with  a  casual  air.  This  small  thing 
alone  caused  the  roar  he  had  left  behind  to  recede  still 
farther. 

"I  was  afraid  that  you  might  be  too  busy  to  come," 


272  KOBIN 

she  went  on.  "You  see,  I  remembered  how  important 
the  work  was  and  that  there  are  things  which  cannot 
wait  for  an  hour.  I  could  have  waited  as  long  as  you 
told  me  to  wait.  But  I  am  so  glad  you  could  come !" 

"I  will  always  come/'  was  his  answer.  "I  have 
helpers  who  could  be  wholly  trusted  if  I  died  to-night. 
I  have  thought  of  that.  One  must." 

She  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said,  "I  am  quite 
away  here  as  you  wanted  me  to  be.  I  see  it  was  the 
only  thing.  I  read  nothing,  hear  nothing.  London — 
the  War — "  her  voice  fell  a  little. 

"They  go  on.  Will  you  be  kind  to  me  and  help  me 
to  forget  them  for  a  while  ?"  He  looked  through  the 
window  at  the  sky  and  the  moor.  "They  are  not  here 
- — they  never  have  been.  The  men  who  come  back  will 
do  anything  to  make  themselves  forget  for  a  little 
while.  This  place  makes  me  feel  that  I  am  a  man 
who  has  come  back." 

"I  will  do  anything — everything — you  wish  me  to 
do,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Dowie  wondered  if  you  would 
not  want  to  be  very  quiet  and  not  be  reminded.  I — 
wondered  too." 

"You  were  both  right.  I  want  to  feel  that  I  am  in 
another  world.  This  seems  like  a  new  planet." 

"Would  you — "  she  spoke  rather  shyly,  "would  you 
be  able  to  stay  a  few  days  ?" 

"I  can  stay  a  week,"  he  answered.  "Thank  you, 
Eobin." 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said.     "I  am  so  glad." 

So  they  did  not  talk  about  the  War  or  about  London, 
though  she  inquired  about  the  Duchess  and  Lady  Loth- 
well  and  Kathryn. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  out  and  walk  over  the  moor  ?" 
she  asked  after  a  short  time.  "It's  so  scented  and  sweet, 


KOBLN"  273 

and  darling  things  scurry  about.  I  don't  think  they 
are  really  frightened,  because  I  try  to  walk  softly. 
Sometimes  there  are  nests  with  eggs  or  soft  little 
things  in  them." 

They  went  out  together  and  walked  side  by  side, 
sometimes  on  the  winding  road  and  sometimes  through 
the  heather.  He  found  himself  watching  every  step 
she  made  and  keeping  his  eye  on  the  path  ahead  of 
them  to  make  sure  she  would  avoid  roughness  or  ir 
regularities.  In  some  inner  part  of  his  being  there 
remotely  worked  the  thought  that  this  was  the  way  in 
which  he  might  have  walked  side  by  side  with  Alixe, 
watching  over  each  step  taken  by  her  sacred  little  feet. 

The  day  was  a  wonder  of  peace  and  relaxation  to 
him.  Farther  and  farther,  until  lost  in  nothingness, 
receded  the  roar  and  the  tensely  strung  sense  of  waiting 
for  news  of  unbearable  things.  As  they  went  on  he  real 
ised  that  he  need  not  even  watch  the  path  before  her 
because  she  knew  it  so  well  and  her  step  was  as  light 
and  firm  as  a  young  roe's.  Her  very  movements  seemed 
to  express  the  natural  physical  enjoyment  of  exercise. 

He  knew  nothing  of  her  mind  but  that  Mademoiselle 
had  told  him  that  she  was  intelligent.  They  had  never 
talked  together  and  so  her  mentality  was  an  unexplored 
field  to  him.  She  did  not  chatter.  She  said  fresh 
picturesque  things  about  life  on  the  moor,  about  the 
faithful  silent  Macaurs,  about  Dowie,  and  now  and 
then  about  something  she  had  read.  She  showed  him 
beauties  and  small  curious  things  she  plainly  loved. 
It  struck  him  that  the  whole  trend  of  her  being  lay 
in  the  direction  of  being  fond  of  people  and  things — 
of  loving  and  being  happy, — and  even  merry  if  life 
had  been  kind  to  her.  Her  soft  laugh  had  a  naturally 
merry  note.  He  heard  it  first  when  she  held  him  quite 


274  EOBIJST 

still  at  her  side  as  they  watched  the  frisking  of  some 
baby  rabbits. 

There  was  a  curious  relief  in  realising,  as  the  hours 
passed,  that  her  old  dislike  and  dread  of  him  had  melted 
into  nothingness  like  a  mist  blown  away  in  the  night. 
She  was  thinking  of  him  as  if  he  were  some  mature 
and  wise  friend  who  had  always  been  kind  to  her. 
He  need  not  rigidly  watch  his  words  and  hers.  She 
was  not  afraid  of  him  at  all;  there  was  no  shrinking 
in  her  eyes  when  they  met  his.  If  Alixe  had  had  a 
daughter  who  was  his  own,  she  might  have  lifted  such 
lovely  eyes  to  him. 

They  lunched  together  and  Dowie  served  them  with 
deft  ability  and  an  expression  which  Coombe  was  able 
to  comprehend  the  at  once  watchful  and  directing  mean 
ing  of.  It  directed  him  to  observation  of  Robin's  ap 
petite  and  watched  for  his  encouraged  realisation  of 
it  as  a  supporting  fact. 

He  went  to  his  own  rooms  in  the  afternoon  that  she 
might  be  alone  and  rest.  He  read  an  old  book  for  an 
hour  and  then  talked  with  the  Macaurs  about  the  place 
and  their  work  and  their  new  charge.  He  wanted  to 
hear  what  they  were  thinking  of  her. 

"It's  wonderful,  my  lord!"  was  Mrs.  Macaur's  re 
peated  contribution.  "She  came  here  a  wee  ghost. 
She  frighted  me.  I  couldna  see  how  she  could  go 
through  what's  before  her.  I  lay  awake  in  my  bed  ex- 
pectin'  Mrs.  Dowie  to  ca'  me  any  hour.  An'  betwixt 
one  night  and  anither  the  change  cam.  She's  a  well 
bairn — for  woman  she  isna,  puir  wee  thing!  It's  a 
wonder — a  wonder — a  wonder,  my  lord !" 

When  he  saw  Dowie  alone  he  asked  her  a  question. 

"Does  she  know  that  you  have  told  me  of  the  dream  '?" 

"No,  my  lord.     The  dream's  a  thing  we  don't  talk 


ROBIN  275 

about.  She's  only  mentioned  it  three  times.  It's  in 
my  mind  that  she  feels  it's  too  sacred  to  be  made 
common  by  words." 

He  had  wondered  if  Robin  had  been  aware  of  his 
knowledge.  After  Bowie's  answer  he  wondered  if 
she  would  speak  to  him  about  the  dream  herself.  Per 
haps  she  would  not.  It  might  be  that  she  had  asked 
him  to  come  to  Darreuch  because  her  thought  of  him 
had  so  changed  that  she  had  realised  something  of  his 
grave  anxiety  for  her  health  and  a  gentle  consideration 
had  made  her  wish  to  give  him  the  opportunity  to  see 
her  face  to  face.  Perhaps  she  had  intended  only  this. 

"I  want  to  see  her/'  he  had  said  to  himself.  The 
relief  of  the  mere  seeing  had  been  curiously  great. 
He  had  the  relief  of  sinking,  as  it  were,  into  the  deep 
waters  of  pure  peace  on  this  new  planet.  In  this 
realisation  every  look  at  the  child's  face,  every  move 
ment  she  made,  every  tone  of  her  voice,  aided.  Did 
she  know  that  she  soothed  him?  Did  she  intend  to 
try  to  soothe?  When  they  were  together  she  gave 
him  a  feeling  that  she  was  strangely  near  and  soft  and 
warm.  He  had  felt  it  on  the  moor.  It  was  actually 
as  if  she  wanted  to  be  quieting  to  him — almost 
as  if  she  had  realised  that  he  had  been  stretched  upon 
a  mental  rack  with  maddening  tumult  all  around 
him.  It  was  part  of  her  pretty  thought  of  him  in 
the  matter  of  the  waiting  chair  and  he  felt  it  very 
sweet. 

But  she  had  had  other  things  in  her  mind  when  she 
had  asked  him  to  come.  This  he  knew  later. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII 

AFTER  they  had  dined  they  sat  together  in  the 
long  Highland  twilight  before  her  window  in 
the  Tower  room  where  he  had  found  her  sitting 
when  he  arrived.  Her  work  basket  was  near  her  and 
she  took  a  piece  of  sheer  lawn  from  it  and  began  to  em 
broider.  And  he  sat  and  watched  her  draw  delicate 
threads  through  the  tiny  leaves  and  flowers  she  was 
making.  Sp/heTiight  have  watched  Alixe  if  she  had 
been  somes  unroyal  girl  given  to  him  in  one  of  life's 
kinder  hours.  She  seemed  to  draw  near  out  of  the  land 
of  lost  shadows  as  he  sat  in  the  clear  twilight  stillness 
and  looked  on.  As  he  might  have  watched  Alixe. 

T/he  silence,  the  paling  daffodil  tints  of  the  sky,  the 
nonj-existence  of  any  other  things  than  calm  and  still 
ness  seemed  to  fill  his  whole  being  as  a  cup  might  be 
filled  by  pure  water  falling  slowly.  She  said  nothing 
and  did  not  even  seem  to  be  waiting  for  anything.  It 
was  he  who  first  broke  the  rather  long  silence  and  his 
voice  was  quite  low. 

"Dp  y^i  know  you  are  very  good  to  me?"  he  said. 
"How  did  you  learn  to  be  so  kind  to  a  man — with  your 
quietness  ?" 

He  saw  the  hand  holding  her  work  tremble  a  very 
little.  She  let  it  fall  upon  her  knee,  still  holding 
the  embroidery.  She  leaned  forward  slightly  and  in 
her  look  there  was  actually  something  rather  like  a  sort 
of  timid  prayer. 

"Please  let  me/^  «l^e  said.  "Please  let  me — if  you 
can!" 

276 


KOBIN  277 

"Let  you !"  was  all  that  he  could  say. 

"Let  me  try  to  help  you  to  rest — to  feel  quiet  and 
forget  for  just  a  little  while.  It's  such  a  small  thing. 
And  it's  all  I  can  ever  try  to  do." 

"You  do  it  very  perfectly,"  he  answered,  touched 
and  wondering. 

"You  have  been  kind  to  me  ever  since  I  was  a  child 
— and  I  did  not  know,"  she  said.  "Now  I  know,  be 
cause  I  understand.  Oh !  will  you  forgive  me  ?  Please 
— will  you  ?" 

"Don't,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "You  were  a  baby.  / 
understood.  That  prevented  there  being  anything  to 
forgive — anything." 

"I  ought  to  have  loved  you  as  I  loved  Mademoiselle 
and  Dowie."  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "And  I 
think  I  hated  you.  It  began  with  Donal,"  in  a  soft 
wail.  "I  heard  Andrews  say  that  his  mother  wouldn't 
let  him  know  me  because  you  were  my  mother's  friend. 
And  then  as  I  grew  older — " 

"Even  if  I  had  known  what  you  thought  I  could  not 
have  defended  myself,"  he  answered,  faintly  smiling. 
"You  must  not  let  yourself  think  of  it.  It  is  nothing 
now." 

The  hand  holding  the  embroidery  lifted  itself  to 
touch  her  breast.  There  was  even  a  shade  of  awe  of 
him  in  her  eyes. 

"It  is  something  to  me — and  to  Donal.  You  have 
never  defended  yourself.  You  endure  things  and  en 
dure  them.  You  watched  for  years  over  an  ignorant 
child  who  loathed  you.  It  was  not  that  a  child's  hatred 
is  of  importance — but  if  I  had  died  and  never  asked 
you  to  forgive  me,  how  could  I  have  looked  into  DonaPs 
eyes  ?  I  want  to  go  down  on  my  knees  to  you !" 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  took  in  his  own  the  un- 


278  ROBIN 

steady  hand  holding  the  embroidery.  He  even  bent  and 
lightly  touched  it  with  his  lips,  with  his  finished  air. 

"You  will  not  die,"  he  said.  "And  you  will  not  go 
upon  your  knees.  Thank  you  for  being  a  warm  hearted 
child,  Kobin." 

But  still  her  eyes  held  the  touch  of  awe  of  him. 

"But  what  I  have  spoken  of  is  the  least*"  Her 
voice  almost  broke.  "In  the  Wood — in  the  dark  you 
said  there  was  something  that  must  be  saved  from  suffer 
ing.  I  could  not  think  then — I  could  scarcely  care. 
But  you  cared,  and  you  made  me  come  awake.  To 
save  a  poor  little  child  who  was  not  born,  you  have  done 
something  which  will  make  people  believe  you  were 
vicious  and  hideous — even  when  all  this  is  over  forever 
and  ever.  And  there  will  be  no  one  to  defend  you. 
Oh!  What  shall  I  do!" 

"There  are  myriads  of  worlds,"  was  his  answer. 
"And  this  is  only  one  of  them.  And  I  am  only  one 
man  among  the  myriads  on  it.  Let  us  be  very  quiet 
again  and  watch  the  coming  out  of  the  stars." 

In  the  pale  saffron  of  the  sky  which  was  mysteriously 
darkening,  sparks  like  deep-set  brilliants  were  lighting 
themselves  here  and  there.  They  sat  and  watched 
them  together  for  long.  But  first  Robin  murmured 
something  barely  above  her  lowest  breath.  Coombe  was 
not  sure  that  she  expected  him  to  hear  it. 

"I  want  to  be  your  little  slave.     Oh !     Let  me !" 


CHAPTEE  XXXIV 

THIS  was  what  she  had  been  thinking  of.  This 
had  been  the  meaning  of  the  tender  thought  for 
him  he  had  recognised  uncomprehendingly  in 
her  look:  it  had  been  the  cause  of  her  desire  to  enfold 
him  in  healing  and  restful  peace.  When  he  had  felt 
that  she  drew  so  close  to  him  that  they  were  scarcely 
separated  by  physical  being,  it  was  because  she  had 
suddenly  awakened  to  a  new  comprehension.  The 
awakening  must  have  been  a  sudden  one.  He  had 
known  at  the  church  that  it  had  taken  all  her  last  rem 
nant  of  strength  to  aid  her  to  lay  her  cold  hand  in 
his  and  he  had  seen  shrinking  terror  in  her  eyes  when 
she  lifted  them  to  his  as  he  put  on  her  wedding  ring. 
He  had  also  known  perfectly  what  memory  had  beset 
her  at  the  moment  and  he  had  thrown  all  the  force  of 
his  will  into  the  look  which  had  answered  her — the 
look  which  had  told  her  that  he  understood.  Yes,  the 
awakening  must  have  been  sudden  and  he  asked  him 
self  how  it  had  come  about — what  had  made  all  clear  ? 
He  had  never  been  a  mystic,  but  during  the  cata 
clysmic  hours  through  which  men  were  living,  many  of 
them  stunned  into  half  blindness  and  then  shocked  into 
an  unearthly  clarity  of  thought  and  sight,  he  had  come 
upon  previously  unheard  of  signs  of  mysticism  on  all 
sides.  People  talked — most  of  them  blunderingly — of 
things  they  would  not  have  mentioned  without  de 
rision  in  pre-war  days.  Premonitions,  dreams,  visions, 

telepathy  were  not  by  any  means  always  flouted  with 

279 


280  ROBIN 

raucous  laughter  and  crude  witticisms.  Even  unortho 
dox  people  had  begun  to  hold  tentatively  religious  views. 

Was  he  becoming  a  mystic  at  last  ?  As  he  walked  by 
Robin's  side  on  the  moor,  as  he  dined  with  her,  talked 
with  her,  sat  and  watched  her  at  her  sewing,  more 
than  ever  each  hour  he  believed  that  her  dream  was 
no  ordinary  fantasy  of  the  unguided  brain.  She  had 
in  some  strange  way  seen  Donal.  Where — how — where 
he  had  come  from — where  he  returned  after  their  meet 
ing — he  ceased  to  ask  himself.  What  did  it  matter 
after  all  if  souls  could  so  comfort  and  sustain  each 
other  ?  The  blessedness  of  it  was  enough. 

He  wondered  as  Dowie  had  done  whether  she  would 
reveal  anything  to  him  or  remain  silent.  There  was 
no  actual  reason  why  she  should  speak.  No  remotest 
reference  to  the  subject  would  come  from  himself. 

It  was  in  truth  a  new  planet  he  lived  on  during  this 
marvel  of  a  week.  The  child  was  wonderful,  he  told 
himself.  He  had  not  realised  that  a  feminine  creature 
could  be  so  exquisitely  enfolding  and  yet  leave  a  man 
so  wholly  free.  She  was  not  always  with  him,  but 
her  spirit  was  so  near  that  he  began  to  feel  that  no  faint 
est  wish  could  form  itself  within  his  mind  without  her 
mysteriously  knowing  of  its  existence  and  realising 
it  while  she  seemed  to  make  no  effort.  She  did  pretty 
things  for  him  and  her  gladness  in  his  pleasure  in  them 
touched  him  to  the  core.  He  also  knew  that  she 
wished  him  to  see  that  she  was  well  and  strong  and 
never  tired  or  languid.  There  was,  perhaps,  one  thing 
she  could  do  for  him  and  she  wanted  to  prove  to  him 
that  he  might  be  sure  she  would  not  fail  him.  He 
allowed  her  to  perform  small  services  for  him  be 
cause  of  the  dearness  of  the  smile  it  brought  to  her  lips 
— almost  a  sort  of  mothering  smile.  It  was  really 


EOBIST  281 

true  that  she  wanted  to  be  his  little  slave  and  he  had 
imagination  enough  to  guess  that  she  comforted  her 
self  by  saying  the  thing  to  herself  again  and  again; 
childlike  and  fantastic  as  it  was. 

She  taught  him  to  sleep  as  he  had  not  slept  for  a 
year;  she  gave  him  back  the  power  to  look  at  his  food 
without  a  sense  of  being  repelled;  she  restored  to  him 
the  ability  to  sit  still  in  a  chair  as  though  it  were  meant 
to  rest  in.  His  nerves  relaxed ;  his  deadly  fatigue  left 
him;  and  it  was  the  quiet  nearness  of  Robin  that  had 
done  it.  He  felt  younger  and  knew  that  on  his  return 
to  London  he  should  be  more  inclined  to  disbelieve  ex 
aggerated  rumours  than  to  believe  them. 

On  the  evening  before  he  left  Darreuch  they  sat  at 
the  Tower  window  again.  She  did  not  take  her  sew 
ing  from  its  basket,  but  sat  very  quietly  for  a  while 
looking  at  the  purple  folds  of  moor. 

"You  will  go  away  very  early  in  the  morning,"  she 
began  at  last. 

"Yes.  You  must  promise  me  that  you  will  not 
awaken." 

"I  do  not  waken  early.  If  I  do  I  shall  come  to 
you,  but  I  think  I  shall  be  asleep." 

"Try  to  be  asleep." 

He  saw  that  she  was  going  to  say  something  else — 
something  not  connected  with  his  departure.  It  was 
growing  in  her  eyes  and  after  a  silent  moment  or  so 
she  began. 

"There  is  something  I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  said. 

"Yes?" 

"I  have  waited  because  I  wanted  to  make  sure  that 
you  could  believe  it  I  did  not  think  you  would  not 
tfish  to  believe  it,  but  sometimes  there  are  people 
tfho  cannot  believe  even  when  they  try.  Perhaps  once 


282  KOBI1SF 

I  should  not  have  been  able  to  believe  myself.  But 
now — I  know.  And  to-night  I  feel  that  you  are  one 
of  those  who  can  believe." 

She  was  going  to  speak  of  it. 

"In  these  days  when  all  the  forces  of  the  world  are 
in  upheaval  people  are  learning  that  there  are  many 
new  things  to  be  believed/'  was  his  answer. 

She  turned  towards  him,  extending  her  arms  that 
he  might  see  her  well. 

"See !"  she  said,  "I  am  alive  again.  I  am  alive 
because  Donal  came  back  to  me.  He  comes  every  night 
and  when  he  comes  he  is  not  dead.  Can  you  believe 
it?" 

"When  I  look  at  you  and  remember,  I  can  believe 
anything.  I  do  not  understand.  I  do  not  know  where 
he  comes  from- — or  how,  but  I  believe  that  in  some  way 
you  see  him." 

She  had  always  been  a  natural  and  simple  girl  and  it 
struck  him  that  her  manner  had  never  been  a  more 
natural  one. 

ffl  do  not  know  where  he  comes  from,"  the  clearness 
of  a  bell  in  her  voice.  "He  does  not  want  me  to  ask 
him.  He  did  not  say  so  but  I  know.  When  he  is  with 
me  we  know  things  without  speaking  words.  We  only 
talk  of  happy  things.  I  have  not  told  him  that — that 
I  have  been  unhappy  and  that  I  thought  that  perhaps 
I  was  really  dead.  He  made  me  understand  about 
you — but  he  does  not  know  anything — else.  Yes — " 
eagerly,  eagerly,  "you  are  believing — you  are!" 

"Yes — I  am  believing." 

"If  everything  were  as  it  used  to  be — I  should  see 
him  and  talk  to  him  in  the  day  time.  Now  I  see  him 
and  talk  to  him  at  night  instead.  You  see,  it  is  almost 
the  same  thing.  But  we  are  really  happier.  We  are 


KOBIJST  283 

afraid  of  nothing  and  we  only  tell  eacli  other  of  happy 
things.  We  know  how  wonderful  everything  is  and 
that  it  was  meant  to  he  like  that.  You  don't  know 
how  beautiful  it  is  when  you  only  think  and  talk  about 
joyful  things!  The  other  things  fly  away.  Sometimes 
we  go  out  onto  the  moor  together  and  the  darkness  is 
not  darkness — it  is  a  soft  lovely  thing  as  beautiful  as 
the  light  We  love  it — and  we  can  go  as  far  as  we 
like  because  we  are  never  tired.  Being  tired  is  one 
of  the  things  that  has  flown  away  and  left  us  quite 
light  That  is  why  I  feel  light  in  the  day  and  I  am 
never  tired  or  afraid.  I  remember  all  the  day." 

As  he  listened,  keeping  his  eyes  on  her  serenely 
radiant  face,  he  asked  himself  what  he  should  have 
been  thinking  if  he  had  been  a  psychopathic  specialist 
studying  her  case.  He  at  the  same  time  realised  that 
a  psychopathic  specialist's  opinion  of  what  he  himself 
— Lord  Coombe — thought  would  doubtless  have  been 
scientifically  disconcerting.  For  what  he  found  that 
he  thought  was  that,  through  some  mysteriously  benef 
icent  opening  of  portals  kept  closed  through  all  the  eons 
of  time,  she  who  was  purest  love's  self  had  strangely 
passed  to  places  where  vision  revealed  things  as  they 
were  created  by  that  First  Intention — of  which  people 
sometimes  glibly  talked  in  London  drawing-rooms.  He 
had  not  seen  life.  so.  He  was  not  on  her  plane,  but,  as 
he  heard  her,  he  for  the  time  believed  in  its  existence 
and  felt  a  remote  nostalgia. 

"Dowie  is  very  brave  and  tries  not  to  be  fright 
ened,"  she  went  on ;  "but  she  is  really  afraid  that  some 
thing  may  happen  to  my  mind.  She  thinks  it  is  only  a 
queer  dream  which  may  turn  out  unhealthy.  But  it  is 
not.  It  is  Donal." 

"Yes,  it  is  Donal,"  he  answered  gravely.     And  he  be- 


284  KOBIST 

lieved  he  was  speaking  a  truth,  though  he  was  aware  of 
no  material  process  of  reasoning  by  which  such  a  con 
clusion  could  be  reached.  One  had  to  overleap  gaps — 
even  abysses — where  material  reasoning  came  to  a  full 
stop.  One  could  only  argue  that  there  might  be  yet  un 
known  processes  to  be  revealed.  Mere  earthly  inven 
tion  was  revealing  on  this  plane  unknown  processes 
year  by  year — why  not  on  other  planes  ? 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  because  I  want  you  to  know 
everything  about  me.  It  seems  as  if  I  belong  to  you, 
Lord  Coombe,"  there  was  actual  sweet  pleading  in  her 
voice.  "You  watched  and  made  my  life  for  me.  I 
should  not  have  been  this  Robin  if  you  had  not  watched. 
When  Donal  came  back  he  found  me  in  the  house  you 
had  taken  me  to  because  I  could  be  safe  in  it.  Every 
thing  has  come  from  you.  ...  I  am  yours  as  well  as 
DonaTs." 

"You  give  me  extraordinary  comfort,  dear  child,"  he 
said.  "I  did  not  know  that  I  needed  it,  but  I  see  that 
I  did.  Perhaps  I  have  longed  for  it  without  knowing 
it.  You  have  opened  closed  doors." 

"I  will  do  anything — everything — you  wish  me  to 
do.  I  will  obey  you  always,"  she  said. 

"You  are  doing  everything  I  most  desire,"  he  an 
swered. 

"Then  I  will  try  more  every  day." 

She  meant  it  as  she  had  always  meant  everything 
she  said.  It  was  her  innocent  pledge  of  faithful  serv 
ice,  because,  understanding  at  last,  she  had  laid  her 
white  young  heart  in  gratitude  at  his  feet.  No  living 
man  could  have  read  her  more  clearly  than  this  one 
whom  half  Europe  had  secretly  smiled  at  as  its  most 
finished  debauchee.  When  she  took  her  pretty  basket 
upon  her  knee  and  began  to  fold  its  bits  of  lawn  deli- 


ROBIN  285 

cately  for  the  night,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  watching  some 
stainless  acolyte  laying  away  the  fine  cloths  of  an 
altar. 

Though  no  one  would  have  accused  him  of  being  a 
sentimentalist  or  an  emotional  man,  his  emotions  over 
powered  him  for  once  and  swept  doubt  of  emotion  and 
truth  into  some  outer  world. 


The  morning  rose  fair  and  the  soft  wind  blowing 
across  the  gorse  and  heather  brought  scents  with  it. 
Dowie  waited  upon  him  at  his  early  breakfast  and  took 
the  liberty  of  indulging  in  open  speech. 

"You  go  away  looking  rested,  my  lord,"  she  respect 
fully  ventured.  "And  you  leave  us  feeling  safe." 

"Quite  safe,"  he  answered ;  "she  is  beautifully  well." 

"That's  it,  my  lord— beautifully— thank  God.  I've 
never  seen  a  young  thing  bloom  as  she  does  and  I've  seen 
many.'' 

The  cart  was  at  the  door  and  he  stood  in  the  shadows 
of  the  hall  when  a  slight  sound  made  him  look  up  at 
the  staircase.  It  was  an  ancient  winding  stone  descent 
with  its  feudal  hand  rope  for  balustrade.  Robin  was 
coming  down  it  in  a  loose  white  dress.  Her  morning 
face  was  wonderful.  It  was  inevitable  that  he  should 
ask  himself  where  she  had  come  from — what  she  had 
brought  with  her  unknowing.  She  looked  like  a  white 
blossom  drifting  from  the  bough — like  a  feather  from 
a  dove's  wing  floating  downward  to  earth.  Put  she 
was  only  Robin. 

"You  awakened,"  he  reproached  her. 

She  came  quite  near  him. 

"I  wanted  to  awake.     Donal  wanted  me  to." 

She  had  never  been  quite  so  near  him  before.     She 


286  KOBIN 

put  out  a  hand  and  laid  it  on  the  rough  tweed  covering 
his  breast. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you.  Will  you  come  again — when 
you  are  tired?  I  shall  always  be  here  waiting." 

"Thank  you,  dear  child/7  he  answered.  "I  will  come 
as  often  as  I  can  leave  London.  This  is  a  new  planet." 

He  was  almost  as  afraid  to  move  as  if  a  bird  had 
alighted  near  him. 

But  she  was  not  afraid.  Her  eyes  were  clear  pools 
of  pure  light. 

"Before  you  go  away — "  she  said  as  simply  as  she 
had  said  it  to  Dowie  years  before,  " — may  I  kiss  you, 
Lord  Coombe  ?  I  want  to  kiss  you." 

His  old  friend  had  told  him  the  story  of  Dowie  and 
it  had  extraordinarily  touched  him  though  he  had  said 
but  little.  And  now  it  repeated  itself.  He  had  never 
seen  anything  so  movingly  lovely  in  his  life  as  her  sweet 
gravity. 

She  lifted  her  slight  arms  and  laid  them  around  his 
neck  as  she  kissed  him  gently,  as  if  she  had  been  his 
daughter — his  own  daughter  and  delight — whose  mother 
might  have  been  Alixe. 


CHAPTEK  XXXV 

IT  was  the  strangest  experience  of  my  existence. 
It  seemed  suddenly  to  change  me  to  another  type 
of  man." 

He  said  it  to  the  Duchess  as  he  sat  with  her  in  her 
private  room  at  Eaton  Square.  He  had  told  her  the 
whole  story  of  his  week  at  Darreuch  and  she  had  lis 
tened  with  an  interest  at  moments  almost  breathless. 

"Do  you  feel  that  you  shall  remain  the  new  type  of 
man,  or  was  it  only  a  temporary  phase  ?"  she  inquired* 

"I  told  her  that  I  felt  I  was  living  on  a  new  planet. 
London  is  the  old  planet  and  I  have  returned  to  it. 
But  not  as  I  left  it.  Something  has  come  back  with 
me." 

"It  must  have  seemed  another  planet,"  the  Duchess 
pondered.  "The  stillness  of  huge  unbroken  moors — no 
war — no  khaki  in  sight — utter  peace  and  remoteness. 
A  girl  brought  back  to  life  by  pure  love,  drawing  a 
spirit  out  of  the  unknown  to  her  side  on  earth." 

"She  is  like  a  spirit  herself — but  that  she  remains 
Robin — in  an  extraordinary  new  blooming." 

"Yes,  she  remains  Robin."  The  Duchess  thought  it 
out  slowly.  "Not  once  did  she  disturb  you  or  herself 
by  remembering  that  you  were  her  husband." 

"A  girl  who  existed  on  the  old  planet  would  have 
remembered,  and  I  should  have  detested  her.  To  her, 
marriage  means  only  Donal.  The  form  we  went 
through  she  sees  only  as  a  supreme  sacrifice  I  made 
for  the  sake  of  Donal's  child.  If  you  could  have  heard 

287 


288  EOBIN 

her  heart-wrung  cry,  'There  will  be  no  one  to  defend 
you!  Oh!  What  shall  I  do !'  » 

"The  stainless  little  soul  of  her!"  the  Duchess  ex 
claimed.  "Her  world  holds  only  love  and  tenderness. 
Her  goodbye  to  you  meant  that  in  her  penitence  she 
wanted  to  take  you  into  it  in  the  one  way  she  feels 
most  sacred.  She  will  not  die.  She  will  live  to  give 
you  the  child.  If  it  is  a  son  there  will  be  a  Head  of 
the  House  of  Coombe." 

"On  the  new  planet  one  ceases  to  feel  the  vital  im 
portance  of  'houses/  "  Coombe  half  reflected  aloud. 

"Even  on  the  old  planet,"  the  Duchess  spoke  as  a 
woman  very  tired,  "one  is  beginning  to  contemplate 
changes  in  values." 


The  slice  of  a  house  in  Mayf  air  had  never  within  the 
memory  of  man  been  so  brilliant.  The  things  done  in 
it  were  called  War  Work  and  necessitated  much  active 
gaiety.  Persons  of  both  sexes,  the  majority  of  them 
in  becoming  uniform,  flashed  in  and  out  in  high  spirits. 
If  you  were  a  personable  and  feminine  creature,  it  was 
necessary  to  look  as  much  like  an  attractive  boy  as  pos 
sible  when  you  were  doing  War  Work.  If  one  could 
achieve  something  like  leggings  in  addition  to  a  mascu 
line  cut  of  coat,  one  could  swagger  about  most  alluringly. 
There  were  numbers  of  things  to  be  done  which  did  not 
involve  frumpish  utilitarian  costumes,  all  caps  and 
aprons.  Very  short  skirts  were  the  most  utilitarian  of 
garments  because  they  were  easy  to  get  about  in.  Smart 
military  little  hats  were  utilitarian  also — and  could 
be  worn  at  any  inspiring  angle  which  would  most  at 
tract  the  passing  eye.  Even  before  the  War,  shapely 
legs,  feet  and  ankles  had  begun  to  play  an  increasingly 


KOBIN  289 

interesting  part  in  the  scheme  of  the  Universe — as  a 
result  of  the  brevity  of  skirts  and  the  prevalence  of 
cabaret  dancing.  During  the  War,  as  a  consequence 
of  the  War  Work  done  in  such  centres  of  activity  as  the 
slice  of  a  house  in  Mayfair,  these  attractive  members 
were  allowed  opportunities  such  as  the  world  had  not 
before  contemplated. 

"Skirts  must  be  short  when  people  are  doing  real 
work/'  Feather  said.  "And  then  of  course  one's  shoes 
and  stockings  require  attention.  I'm  not  always  sure 
I  like  leggings  however  smart  they  are.  Still  I  often 
wear  them — as  a  sort  of  example." 

"Of  what?"  inquired  Coombe  who  was  present 

"Oh,  well — of  what  women  are  willing  to  do  for  their 
country — in  time  of  war.  Wearing  unbecoming  things 
— and  doing  without  proper  food.  These  food  restric 
tions  are  enough  to  cause  a  revolution." 

She  was  specially  bitter  against  the  food  restrictions. 
If  there  was  one  thing  men  back  from  the  Front — par 
ticularly  officers — were  entitled  to,  it  was  unlimited 
food.  The  Government  ought  to  attend  to  it.  When 
a  man  came  back  and  you  invited  him  to  dinner,  a 
nice  patriotic  thing  it  was  to  restrict  the  number  of 
courses  and  actually  deny  him  savouries  and  entrees 
because  they  are  called  luxuries.  Who  should  have 
luxuries  if  not  the  men  who  were  defending  England  ? 

"Of  course  the  Tommies  don't  need  them,"  she  leni 
ently  added.  "They  never  had  them  and  never  will. 
But  men  who  are  officers  in  smart  regiments  are  starv 
ing  for  them.  I  consider  that  my  best  War  Work 
is  giving  as  many  dinner  parties  as  possible,  and  paying 
as  little  attention  to  food  restrictions  as  I  can  manage 
by  using  my  wits." 

For  some  time — in  certain  quarters  even  from  early 


290  KOBIN 

days — there  had  been  flowing  through  many  places  a 
current  of  talk  about  America.  What  was  she  going  to 
do?  Was  she  going  to  do  anything  at  all?  Would 
it  be  possible  for  her  hugeness,  her  power,  her  wealth 
to  remain  inert  in  a  world  crisis  ?  Would  she  be  con 
tent  tacitly  to  admit  the  truth  of  old  accusations  of 
commerciality  by  securing  as  her  part  in  the  super 
human  conflict  the  simple  and  unadorned  making  of 
money  through  the  dire  necessities  of  the  world  ?  There 
was  bitterness,  there  were  sneers,  there  were  vague  hopes 
and  scathing  injustices  born  of  torment  and  racking 
dread.  Some  few  were  patiently  just,  because  they  knew 
something  of  the  country  and  its  political  and  social 
workings  and  were  by  chance  of  those  whose  points  of 
view  included  the  powers  and  significances  of  things 
not  readily  to  be  seen  upon  the  surface  of  events. 

"If  there  were  dollars  to  be  made  out  of  it,  of  course 
America  would  rush  in,"  was  Feather's  decision. 
"Americans  never  do  anything  unless  they  can  make 
dollars.  I  never  saw  a  dollar  myself,  but  I  believe 
they  are  made  of  green  paper.  It  would  be  very  ex 
citing  if  they  did  rush  in.  They  would  bring  so  much 
money  and  they  spend  it  as  if  it  were  water.  Of  course 
they  haven't  any  proper  army,  so  they'd  have  to  build 
one  up  out  of  all  sorts  of  people." 

"Which  was  what  we  were  obliged  to  do  ourselves, 
by  the  way/'  Coombe  threw  in  as  a  contribution. 

"But  they  will  probably  have  stockbrokers  and  Wall 
Street  men  for  officers.  Then  some  of  them  might 
give  one  'tips'  about  how  to  make  millions  in  'corners.' 
I  don't  know  what  corners  are  but  they  make  enormities 
out  of  them.  Starling!"  with  a  hilarious  tinkle  of  a 
laugh,  "you  know  that  appallingly  gorgeous  house  of 


KOBLN"  291 

Cherry  Cheston's  in  Palace  Garden — did  she  ever  tell 
you  that  it  was  the  result  of  a  'tip'  a  queer  Chicago 
man  managed  for  her?  He  liked  her.  He  used  to 
call  her  ' Cherry  Kipe'  when  they  were  alone.  He  was 
big  and  red  and  half  boyish — sentimental  and  half 
blustering.  Cherry  was  ripe,  you  know,  and  he  liked 
the  ripe  style.  I  should  like  to  have  a  Chicago  stock 
broker  of  my  own.  I  wish  the  Americans  would 
come  in!" 

The  Dowager  Duchess  of  Darte  and  Lord  Coombe 
had  been  of  those  who  had  begun  their  talk  of  this 
in  the  early  days. 

"Personally  I  believe  they  will  come  in,"  Coombe 
had  always  said.  And  on  different  occasions  he  had 
added  reasons  which,  combined,  formulated  themselves 
into  the  following  arguments.  "We  don't  really  know 
much  of  the  Americans  though  they  have  been  buying 
and  selling  and  marrying  us  for  some  time.  Our  in 
sular  trick  of  feeling  superior  has  held  us  mentally 
aloof  from  half  the  globe.  But  presumably  the  United 
States  was  from  the  first,  in  itself,  an  ideal,  pure  and 
simple.  It  was.  It  is  asinine  to  pooh-pooh  it.  A 
good  deal  is  said  about  that  sort  of  thing  in  their  his 
tories  and  speeches.  They  keep  it  before  each  other 
and  it  has  had  the  effect  of  suggesting  ideals  on  all 
sides.  Which  has  resulted  in  laying  a  sort  of  founda 
tion  of  men  who  believe  in  the  ideals  and  would  fight 
for  them.  They  are  good  fighters  and,  when  the  sin 
cere  ones  begin,  they  will  plant  their  flag  where  the  in 
sincere  and  mere  politicians  will  be  forced  to  stand  by 
it  to  save  their  faces.  A  few  louder  brays  from  Berlin, 
a  few  more  threats  of  hoofs  trampling  on  the  Star 
Spangled  Banner  and  the  fuse  will  be  fired.  An 


292  ROBIN 

American  fuse  might  turn  out  an  amazing  thing — be 
cause  the  ideals  do  exist  and  ideals  are  inflammable." 
This  had  been  in  the  early  days  spoken  of. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

HAEROWEY  and  the  rest  did  not  carry  on  their 
War  Work  in  the  slice  of  a  house.  It  was 
of  an  order  requiring  a  more  serious  atmos 
phere.  Feather  saw  even  the  Starling  less  and  less. 

"Since  the  Dowager  took  her  up  she's  far  too  grand 
for  the  likes  of  us,"  she  said. 

So  to  speak,  Feather  blew  ahout  from  one  place  to 
another.  She  had  never  found  life  so  exciting  and 
excitement  had  hecome  more  vitally  necessary  to  her 
existence  as  the  years  had  passed.  She  still  looked 
extraordinarily  youthful  and  if  her  face  was  at  times 
rather  marvelous  in  its  white  and  red,  and  her  lips 
daring  in  their  pomegranate  scarlet,  the  fine  grain  of 
her  skin  aided  her  effects  and  she  was  dazzlingly  in 
the  fashion.  She  had  never  worn  such  enchanting 
clothes  and  never  had  seemed  to  possess  so  many. 

"I  twist  my  rags  together  myself,"  she  used  to  laugh. 
"That's  my  gift.  Helene  says  I  have  genius.  I  don't 
mean  that  I  sit  and  sew.  I  have  a  little  slave  woman 
who  does  that  by  the  day.  She  admires  me  and  will  do 
anything  that  I  tell  her.  Things  are  so  delightfully 
scant  and  short  now  that  you  can  cut  two  or  three 
frocks  out  of  one  of  your  old  petticoats — and  mine 
were  never  very  old." 

There  was  probably  a  modicum  of  truth  in  this — * 
the  fact  remained  that  the  garments  which  were  more 
scant  and  shorter  than  those  of  any  other  feathery 
person  were  also  more  numerous  and  exquisite.  Her 

293 


294:  ROBIN 

patriotic  entertainment  of  soldiers  who  required  her 
special  order  of  support  and  recreation  was  fast  and 
furious.  She  danced  with  them  at  cabarets ;  she  danced 
as  a  nymph  for  patriotic  entertainments,  with  snow- 
white  bare  feet  and  legs  and  a  swathing  of  Spring 
woodland  green  tulle  and  leaves  and  primroses.  She 
was  such  a  success  that  important  personages  smiled  on 
her  and  asked  her  to  appear  under  undreamed  of  au 
spices.  Secretly  triumphant  though  she  was,  she  never 
so  far  lost  her  head  as  to  do  anything  which  would 
bore  her  or  cause  her  to  appear  at  less  than  an  alluring 
advantage.  When  she  could  invent  a  particularly 
unique  and  inspiring  shred  of  a  garment  to  startle  the 
public  with,  she  danced  for  some  noble  object  and  in 
toxicated  herself  with  the  dazzle  of  light  and  applause. 
She  found  herself  strung  to  her  highest  pitch  of  ex 
citement  by  the  air  raids,  which  in  the  midst  of  their 
terrors  had  the  singular  effect  of  exciting  many  people 
and  filling  them  with  an  insane  recklessness.  Those 
so  excited  somehow  seemed  to  feel  themselves  immune. 
Feather  chattered  about  "Zepps"  as  if  bombs  could 
only  wreak  their  vengeance  upon  coast  towns  and  the 
]ower  orders. 

When  Lord  Coombe  definitely  refused  to  allow  her 
to  fit  up  the  roof  of  the  slice  of  a  house  as  a  sort  o£ 
luxurious  Royal  Box  from  which  she  and  her  friends 
might  watch  the  spectacle,  she  found  among  her  circle 
acquaintances  who  shared  her  thrills  and  had  prepared 
places  for  themselves.  Sometimes  she  was  even  rather 
indecently  exhilarated  by  her  sense  of  high  adventure. 
The  fact  was  that  the  excitement  of  the  seething  world 
about  her  had  overstrung  her  trivial  being  and  turned 
her  light  head  until  it  whirled  too  fast. 


EOBIN  295 

"It  may  seem  horrid  to  say  so  and  I'm  net  horrid 
— but  I  like  the  war.  You  know  what  I  mean.  Lon 
don  never  was  so  thrilling — with  things  happening 
every  minute — and  all  sorts  of  silly  solemn  fads  swept 
away  so  that  one  can  do  as  one  likes.  And  interesting 
heroic  men  coming  and  going  in  swarms  and  being  so 
grateful  for  kindness  and  entertainment.  One  is  really 
doing  good  all  the  time — and  being  adored  for  it.  I 
own  I  like  being  adored  myself — and  of  course  one  likes 
doing  good.  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life." 

"I  used  to  be  rather  a  coward,  I  suppose/7  she 
chattered  gaily  on  another  occasion.  "I  was  horribly 
afraid  of  things.  I  believe  the  War  and  living  among 
soldiers  has  had  an  effect  on  me  and  made  me  braver. 
The  Zepps  don't  frighten  me  at  all — at  least  they  ex 
cite  me  so  that  they  make  me  forget  to  be  frightened. 
I  don't  know  what  they  do  to  me  exactly.  The  whole 
thing  gets  into  my  head  and  makes  me  want  to  rush 
about  and  see  everything.  I  wouldn't  go  into  a  cellar 
for  worlds.  I  want  to  see  !" 

She  saw  Lord  Coombe  but  infrequently  at  this  time, 
the  truth  being  that  her  exhilaration  and  her  War  Work 
fatigued  him,  apart  from  which  his  hours  were  filled. 
He  also  objected  to  a  certain  raffishness  which  in  an 
extremely  mixed  crowd  of  patriots  rather  too  obviously 
"swept  away  silly  old  fads"  and  left  the  truly  advanced 
to  do  as  they  liked.  What  they  liked  he  did  not  and 
was  wholly  undisturbed  by  the  circumstances  of  being 
considered  a  rigid  old  fossil.  Feather  herself  had  no 
need  of  him.  An  athletic  and  particularly  well  fa 
voured  young  actor  who  shared  her  thrills  of  elation 
seemed  to  permeate  the  atmosphere  about  her.  He  and 
Feather  together  at  times  achieved  the  effect,  between 


296  KOBIJST 

raids,  of  waiting  impatiently  for  a  performance  and 
feeling  themselves  ill  treated  by  the  long  delays  be 
tween  the  acts. 

"Are  we  growing  callous,  or  are  we  losing  our  wits 
through  living  at  such  high  temperature  ?"  the  Duchess 
asked.  "There's  a  delirium  in  the  air.  Among  those 
who  are  not  shuddering  in  cellars  there  are  some  who 
seem  possessed  by  a  sort  of  light  insanity,  half  de 
fiance,  half  excited  curiosity.  People  say  exultantly, 
'I  had  a  perfectly  splendid  view  of  the  last  Zepp !'  A 
mother  whose  daughter  was  paying  her  a  visit  said  to 
her,  'I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  Zepps  while  you 
were  here.  It  is  such  an  experience.' ' 

"They  have  not  been  able  to  bring  about  the  whole 
sale  disaster  Germany  hoped  for  and  when  nothing 
serious  happens  there  is  a  relieved  feeling  that  the  things 
are  futile  after  all,"  said  Coombe.  "When  the  results 
are  tragic  they  must  be  hushed  up  as  far  as  is  possible 
to  prevent  panic." 

*  *  %  *  * 

Dowie  faithfully  sent  him  her  private  bulletin.  Her 
first  fears  of  peril  had  died  away,  but  her  sense  of 
mystification  had  increased  and  was  more  deeply  touched 
with  awe.  She  opened  certain  windows  every  night 
and  felt  that  she  was  living  in  the  world  of  supernatural 
things.  Hobin's  eyes  sometimes  gave  her  a  ghost  of  a 
shock  when  she  came  upon  her  sitting  alone  with  her 
work  in  her  idle  hands.  But  supported  by  the  testi 
mony  of  such  realities  as  breakfasts,  long  untiring 
walks  and  unvarying  blooming  healthfulness,  she 
thanked  God  hourly. 

"Doctor  Benton  says  plain  that  he  has  never  had 
such  a  beautiful  case  and  one  that  promised  so  well," 
she  wrote.  "He  says  she's  as  strong  as  a  young  doe 


ROBIN  297 

bounding  about  on  the  heather.  What  he  holds  is 
that  it's  natural  she  should  be.  He  is  a  clever  gentle 
man  with  some  wonderful  comforting  new  ideas  about 
things,  my  lord.  And  he  tells  me  I  need  not  look 
forward  with  dread  as  perhaps  I  had  been  doing." 

Robin  herself  wrote  to  Coombe — letters  whose  ten 
der-hearted  comprehension  of  what  he  was  doing  always 
held  the  desire  to  surround  him  with  the  soothing  quiet 
he  had  so  felt  when  he  was  with  her.  What  he  dis 
covered  was  that  she  had  been  born  of  the  elect, — the 
women  who  know  what  to  say,  what  to  let  others  say 
and  what  to  beautifully  leave  unsaid.  Her  unconscious 
genius  was  quite  exquisite. 

Now  and  then  he  made  the  night  journey  to  Darreuch 
Castle  and  each  time  she  met  him  with  her  frank  child 
like  kiss  he  was  more  amazed  and  uplifted  by  her  aspect. 
Their  quiet  talks  together  were  wonderful  things  to  re 
member.  She  had  done  much  fine  and  dainty  work 
which  she  showed  him  with  unaffected  sweetness.  She 
told  him  stories  of  Dowie  and  Mademoiselle  and  how 
they  had  taught  her  to  sew  and  embroider.  Once  she 
told  him  the  story  of  her  first  meeting  with  Donal — 
but  she  passed  over  the  tragedy  of  their  first  parting. 

"It  was  too  sad,"  she  said. 

He  noticed  that  she  never  spoke  of  sad  and  dark 
hours.  He  was  convinced  that  she  purposely  avoided 
them  and  he  was  profoundly  glad. 

"I  know,"  she  said  once,  "that  you  do  not  want  me 
to  talk  to  you  about  the  War." 

"Thank  you  for  knowing  it,"  he  answered.  "I  come 
here  on  a  pilgrimage  to  a  shrine  where  peace  is.  Dar 
reuch  is  my  shrine." 

"It  is  mine,  too,"  was  her  low  response. 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is,"  hia  look  at  her  was  deep.     Sud- 


298  BOBIN 

denly  but  gently  lie  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  beg  you,"  he  said  fervently,  "I  beg  you  never  to 
allow  yourself  to  think  of  it.  Blot  the  accursed  thing 
out  of  the  Universe  while — you  are  here.  Eor  you  there 
must  be  no  war." 

"How  kind  his  face  looked/'  was  Robin's  thought 
as  he  hesitated  a  second  and  then  went  on: 

"I  know  very  little  of  such — sacrosanct  things  as 
mothers  and  children,  but  lately  I  have  had  fancies  of  a 
place  for  them  where  there  are  only  smiles  and  happi 
ness  and  beauty — as  a  beginning." 

It  was  she  who  now  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"Little  Darreuch  is  like  that — and  you  gave  it  to  me," 
she  said. 


CHAPTEK  XXXVII 

LORD  COOMBE  was  ushered  into  the  little  draw 
ing-room  by  an  extremely  immature  young  foot 
man  who — doubtless  as  a  consequence  of  his 
immaturity — appeared  upon  the  scene  too  suddenly. 
The  War  left  one  only  servants  who  were  idiots  or 
barely  out  of  Board  Schools,  Feather  said.  And  in 
fact  it  was  something  suggesting  "a  scene"  upon  which 
Coombe  was  announced.  The  athletic  and  personable 
young  actor — entitled  upon  programmes  Owen  Delamore 
— was  striding  to  and  fro  talking  excitedly.  There 
was  theatrical  emotion  in  the  air  and  Feather,  deli 
cately  flushed  and  elate,  was  listening  with  an  air  half 
frightened,  half  pleased.  The  immaturity  of  the  foot 
man  immediately  took  fright  and  the  youth  turning  at 
once  produced  the  fatal  effect  of  fleeing  precipitately. 

Mr.  Owen  Delamore  suddenly  ceased  speaking  and 
would  doubtless  have  flushed  vividly  if  he  had  not 
already  been  so  high  of  colour  as  to  preclude  the  pos 
sibility  of  his  flushing  at  all.  The  scene,  which  was 
plainly  one  of  emotion,  being  intruded  upon  in  its  midst 
left  him  transfixed  on  his  expression  of  anguish,  plead 
ing  and  reproachful  protest — all  thrilling  and  confusing 
things. 

The  very  serenity  of  Lord  Coombe's  apparently  un- 
observing  entrance  was  perhaps  a  shock  as  well  as  a 
relief.  It  took  even  Feather  two  or  three  seconds  to 
break  into  her  bell  of  a  laugh  as  she  shook  hands  with 
her  visitor. 

299 


300  EOBIX 

"Mr.  Delamore  is  going  over  his  big  scene  in  the  new 
play/7  she  explained  with  apt  swiftness  of  resource. 
"It's  very  good,  but  it  excites  him  dreadfully.  I've 
been  told  that  great  actors  don't  let  themselves  get  ex 
cited  at  all,  so  he  ought  not  to  do  it,  ought  he,  Lord 
Coombe  ?" 

Coombe  was  transcendently  well  behaved. 

"I  am  a  yawning  abyss  of  ignorance  in  such  matters, 
but  I  cannot  agree  with  the  people  who  say  that  emotion 
can  be  expressed  without  feeling."  He  himself  ex 
pressed  exteriorly  merely  intelligent  consideration  of 
the  idea.  "That  however  may  be  solely  the  opinion 
of  one  benighted." 

It  was  so  well  done  that  the  young  athlete,  in  the  re 
lief  of  relaxed  nerves,  was  almost  hysterically  inclined 
to  believe  in  Feather's  adroit  statement  and  to  feel  that 
he  really  had  been  acting.  He  was  at  least  able  to  pull 
himself  together,  to  become  less  flushed  and  to  sit  down 
with  some  approach  to  an  air  of  being  lightly  amused 
at  himself. 

"Well  it  is  proved  that  I  am  not  a  great  actor,"  he 
achieved.  "I  can't  come  anywhere  near  doing  it.  I 
don't  believe  Irving  ever  did — or  Coquelin.  But  per 
haps  it  is  one  of  my  recommendations  that  I  don't 
aspire  to  be  great.  At  any  rate  people  only  ask  to  be 
amused  and  helped  out  just  now.  It  will  be  a  long  time 
before  they  want  anything  else,  it's  my  opinion." 

They  conversed  amiably  together  for  nearly  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  Mr.  Owen  Delamore  went  on  his  way 
murmuring  polite  regrets  concerning  impending  re 
hearsals,  his  secret  gratitude  expressing  itself  in  special 
courtesy  to  Lord  Coombe. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  room,  Feather  called  to  him 
airily : 


JIOBIX  301 

"If  you  hear  any  more  of  the  Zepps — just  dash  in  and 
tell  me! — Don't  lose  a  minute!  Just  dash!" 

When  the  front  door  was  heard  to  close  upon  him, 
Coombe  remarked  casually: 

"I  will  ask  you  to  put  an  immediate  stop  to  that 
sort  of  thing." 

He  observed  that  Feather  fluttered — though  she  had 
lightly  moved  -to  a  ta&le  as  if  to  rearrange  a  flower  in  a 
group. 

"Put  a  stop  to  letting  Mr.  Delamore  go  over  his 
scene  here  ?" 

"Put  a  stop  to  Mr.  Delamore,  if  you  please." 

It  was  at  this  moment  more  than  ever  true  that  her 
light  being  was  overstrung  and  that  her  Jight  head 
whirled  too  fast.  This  one  particular  also  overstrung 
young  man  had  shared  all  her  amusements  with  her 
and  had  ended  by  pleasing  her  immensely — perhaps  to 
the  verge  of  inspiring  a  touch  of  fevered  sentiment 
she  had  previously  never  known.  'She  told  herself  that 
it  was  the  War  when  she  thought  of  it.  She  had  how 
ever  not  been  clever  enough  to  realise  that  she  was  a 
little  losing  her  head  in  a  way  which  might  not  be  to 
her  advantage.  For  the  moment  she  lost  it  completely. 
She  almost  whirled  around  as  she  came  to  Coombe. 

"I  won't,"  she  exclaimed.     "I  won't!" 

It  was  a  sort  of  shock  to  him.  She  had  never  done 
anything  like  it  before.  It  struck  him  that  he  had 
never  before  seen  her  look  as  she  looked  at  the  moment. 
She  was  a  shade  too  dazzlingly  made  up — she  had 
crossed  the  line  on  one  side  of  which  lies  the  art  which 
is  perfect.  Even  her  dress  had  a  suggestion  of  war 
time  lack  of  restraint  in  its  style  and  colours. 

It  was  of  a  strange  green  and  a  very  long  scarf  of  an 
intensely  vivid  violet  spangled  with  silver  paillettes  was 


302  KOBIJtf 

swathed  around  her  bare  shoulders  and  floated  from 
her  arms.  One  of  the  signs  of  her  excitement  was  that 
she  kept  twisting  its  ends  without  knowing  that  she 
was  touching  it.  He  noted  that  she  wore  a  big  purple 
amethyst  ring — the  amethyst  too  big.  Her  very  voice 
was  less  fine  in  its  inflections  and  as  he  swiftly  took  in 
these  points  Coombe  recognised  that  they  were  the 
actual  result,  of  the  slight  tone  of  raffishness  he  had 
observed  as  denoting  the  character  of  her  increasingly 
mixed  circle. 

She  threw  herself  into  a  chair  palpitating  in  one  of 
her  rages  of  a  little  cat — wreathing  her  scarf  round 
and  round  her  wrist  and  singularly  striking  him  with 
the  effect  of  almost  spitting  and  hissing  out  her  words. 

"I  won't  give  up  everything  I  like  and  that  likes  me," 
she  flung  out.  "The  War  has  done  something  to  us 
all.  It's  made  us  let  ourselves  go.  It's  done  some 
thing  to  me  too.  It's  made  me  less  frightened.  I  won't 
be  bullied  into — into  things." 

"Do  I  seem  to  bully  you  ?     I  am  sorry." 

The  fact  that  she  had  let  herself  go  with  the  rest 
of  the  world  got  the  better  of  her. 

"You  have  not  been  near  me  for  weeks  and  now 
you  turn  up  with  your  air  of  a  grand  Bashawe  and 
order  people  out  of  my  house.  You  have  not,  been 
near  me." 

The  next  instant  it  was  as  though  she  tore  off  some 
last  shred  of  mental  veiling  and  threw  it  aside  in  her 
reckless  mounting  heat  of  temper. 

"Near  me !"  she  laughed  scathingly,  "For  the  matter 
of  that  when  have  you  ever  been  near  me  ?  It's  always 
been  the  same.  I've  known  it  for  years.  As  the 
Yankees  say,  you  'wouldn't  touch  me  with  a  ten-foot 
pole.'  I'm  sick  of  it.  What  did  you  do  it  for?" 


KOBIN  303 

"Do  what?" 

"Take  possession  of  me  as  if  I  were  your  property. 
You  never  were  in  love  with  me — never  for  a  second. 
If  you  had  been  you'd  have  married  me." 

"Yes.     I  should  have  married  you." 

"There  was  no  reason  why  you  should  not.  I  was 
pretty.  I  was  young.  I'd  been  decently  brought  up 
— and  it  would  have  settled  everything.  Why  didn't 
you  instead  of  letting  people  think  I  was  your  mistress 
when  I  didn't  count  for  as  much  as  a  straw  in  your 
life?" 

"You  represented  more  than  that,"  he  answered. 
"Kindly  listen  to  me." 

That  she  had  lost  her  head  completely  was  sufficiently 
manifested  by  the  fact  that  she  had  begun  to  cry — 
which  made  it  necessary  for  her  to  use  her  handkerchief 
with  inimitable  skill  to  prevent  the  tears  from  encroach 
ing  on  her  brilliant  white  and  rose. 

"If  you  had  been  in  love  with  me — "  she  chafed 
bitterly. 

"On  the  morning  some  years  ago  when  I  came  to  you 
I  made  myself  clear  to  the  best  of  my  ability,"  he  said. 
"I  did  not  mention  love.  I  told  you  that  I  had  no 
intention  of  marrying  you.  I  called  your  attention  to 
what  the  world  would  assume.  I  left  the  decision  to 
you." 

"What  could  I  do — without  a  penny?  Some  other 
man  would  have  had  to  do  it  if  you  had  not,"  the  letting 
go  rushed  her  into  saying. 

"Or  you  would  have  been  obliged  to  return  to  your 
parents  in  Jersey — which  you  refused  to  contemplate." 

"Of  course  I  refused.  It  would  have  been  mad  to 
do  it.  And  there  were  other  people  who  would  have 
paid  my  bills." 


304  ROBIN 

"Solely  because  I  knew  that,  I  made  my  proposition. 
Being  much  older  than  you  I  realised  that  other  people 
might  not  feel  the  responsibility  binding — and  per 
manent." 

She  sat  up  and  stared  at  him.  There  was  no  touch 
of  the  rancour  of  recrimination  in  his  presentation  of 
detached  facts.  He  was  different  from  the  rest.  He  was 
always  better  dressed  and  the  perfection  of  his  imper 
sonal  manner  belonged  to  a  world  being  swept  away. 
He  made  Mr.  Owen  Delamore  seem  by  contrast  a  bounder 
and  an  outsider.  But  the  fact  which  had  in  the  secret 
places  of  her  small  mind  been  the  fly  in  her  ointment 
— the  one  fact  that  he  had  never  for  a  moment  cared  a 
straw  for  her — caused  her  actually  to  hate  him  as  he 
again  made  it,  quite  without  prejudice,  crystal  clear. 
It  was  true  that  he  had  more  than  kept  his  word — that 
he  had  never  broken  a  convention  in  his  bearing  to 
wards  her — that  in  his  rigid  way  he  had  behaved  like 
a  prince — but  she  had  been  dirt  under  his  feet — she 
had  been  dirt  under  his  feet!  She  wanted  to  rave 
like  a  fishwife — though  there  were  no  fishwives  in 
Mayfair. 

It  was  at  this  very  moment  of  climax  that  a  sudden 
memory  beset  her. 

"Rob  always  said  that  if  a  woman  who  was  pretty 
could  see  a  man  often  enough — again  and  again — he 
couldn't  help  himself — unless  there  was  some  one  else !" 

Her  last  words  were  fiercely  accusing.  She  quite 
glared  at  him  a  few  seconds,  her  chest  heaving  pant- 
ingly. 

She  suddenly  sprang  from  her  sofa  and  dashed  to 
wards  a  table  where  a  pile  of  photographs  lay  in  an  un 
tidy  little  heap.  She  threw  them  about  with  angrily 


ROBIN"  305 

shaking  hands  until  at  last  she  caught  at  one  and 
brought  it  back  to  him. 

"There  ivas  some  one  else,"  she  laughed  shrilly. 
"You  were  in  love  with  that  creature." 

It  was  one  of  the  photographs  of  Alixe  such  as  the 
Bond  Street  shop  had  shown  in  its  windows. 

She  made  a  movement  as  if  to  throw  it  into  the  grate 
and  he  took  it  from  her  hand,  saying  nothing  whatever. 

"I'd  forgotten  about  it  until  Owen  Delamore 
reminded  me  only  yesterday,"  she  said.  "He's  a 
romantic  thing  and  be  heard  that  you  had  been  in  attend 
ance  and  had  been  sent  to  their  castle  in  Germany. 
He  worked  the  thing  out  in  his  own  way.  He  said  you 
had  chosen  me  because  I  was  like  her.  I  can  see  now ! 
I  was  like  her!" 

"If  you  had  been  like  her,"  his  voice  was  intensely 
bitter,  "I  should  have  asked  you  to  be  my  wife.  You 
are  as  unlike  her  as  one  human  being  can  be  to  another." 

"But  I  was  enough  like  her  to  make  you  take  me  up !" 
she  cried  furiously. 

"I  have  neither  taken  you  up  nor  put  you  down,"  he 
answered.  "Be  good  enough  never  to  refer  to  the  sub 
ject  again." 

"I'll  refer  to  any  subject  I  like.  If  you  think  I 
shall  not  you  are  mistaken.  It  will  be  worth  talking 
about.  An  Early  Victorian  romance  is  worth  some 
thing  in  these  days." 

The  trend  of  her  new  circle  had  indeed  carried  her 
far.  He  was  privately  appalled  by  her.  She  was 
hysterically,  passionately  spiteful — almost  to  the  point 
of  malignance. 

"Do  you  realise  that  this  is  a  scene  ?  It  has  not  been 
our  habit  to  indulge  in  scenes,"  he  said. 


306  ROBIN" 

"I  shall  speak  about  it  as  freely  as  I  shall  speak 
about  Robin,"  she  flaunted  at  him,  wholly  unrestrained. 
"Do  you  think  I  know  nothing  about  Robin?  I'm 
an  affectionate  mother  and  I've  been  making  inquiries. 
She's  not  with  the  Dowager  at  Eaton  Square.  She  got 
ill  and  was  sent  away  to  be  hidden  in  the  country. 
Girls  are,  sometimes.  I  thought  she  would  be  sent  away 
somewhere,  the  day  I  met  her  in  the  street.  She 
looked  exactly  like  that  sort  of  thing.  Where  is  she? 
I  demand  to  know." 

There  is  nothing  so  dangerous  to  others  as  the  mere 
spitefully  malignant  temper  of  an  empty  headed  creature 
giving  itself  up  to  its  own  weak  fury.  It  knows  no 
restraint,  no  limit  in  its  folly.  In  her  fantastic  brood- 
ings  over  her  daughter's  undue  exaltation  of  position 
Feather  had  many  times  invented  for  her  own  entertain 
ment  little  scenes  in  which  she  could  score  satisfactorily. 
Such  scenes  had  always  included  Coombe,  the  Dowager, 
Robin  and  Mrs.  Muir. 

"I  am  her  mother.  She  is  not  of  age.  I  can  demand 
to  see  her.  I  can  make  her  come  home  and  stay  with 
me  while  I  see  her  through  her  'trouble,'  as  pious  people 
call  it.  She's  got  herself  into  trouble — just  like  a 
housemaid.  I  knew  she  would — I  warned  her,"  and  her 
laugh  was  actually  shrill. 

It  was  inevitable — and  ghastly — that  he  should 
suddenly  see  Robin  with  her  white  eyelids  dropped  over 
her  basket  of  sewing  by  the  window  in  the  Tower  room 
at  Darreuch,  It  rose  as  clear  as  a  picture  on  a  screen 
and  he  felt  sick  with  actual  terror. 

"I'll  go  to  the  Duchess  and  ask  her  questions  until  she 
can't  face  me  without  telling  the  truth.  If  she's  nasty 
I'll  talk  to  the  War  Work  people  who  crowd  her  house. 
They  all  saw  Robin  and  the  wide-awake  ones  will 


KOBIN  307 

understand  when  I'm  maternal  and  tragic  and  insist  on 
knowing.  I'll  go  to  Mrs.  Muir  and  talk  to  her.  It 
will  be  fun  to  see  her  face  and  the  Duchess'." 

He  had  never  suspected  her  of  malice  such  as  this. 
And  even  in  the  midst  of  his  ghastly  dismay  he  saw 
that  it  was  merely  the  malice  of  an  angrily  spiteful 
selfish  child  of  bad  training  and  with  no  heart.  There 
was  nothing  to  appeal  to — nothing  to  arrest  and  con 
trol.  She  might  repent  her  insanity  in  a  few  days  but 
for  the  period  of  her  mood  she  would  do  her  senseless 
worst, 

"Your  daughter  has  not  done  what  you  profess  to 
believe,"  he  said.  "You  do  not  believe  it.  Will  you 
tell  me  why  you  propose  to  do  these  things  ?" 

She  had  worked  herself  up  to  utter  recklessness. 

"Because  of  everything"  she  spat  forth.  "Because 
I'm  in  a  rage — because  I'm  sick  of  her  and  her  duch 
esses.  And  I'm  most  sick  of  you  hovering  about  her  as 
if  she  were  a  princess  of  the  blood  and  you  were  her 
Grand  Chamberlain.  Why  don't  you  marry  her  your 
self — baby  and  all !  Then  you'll  be  sure  there'll  be  an 
other  Head  of  the  House  of  Coombe !" 

She  knew  then  that  she  had  raved  like  a  fishwife — 
that,  even  though  there  had  before  been  no  fishwives 
in  Mayfair,  he  saw  one  standing  shrilling  before  him. 
It  was  in  his  eyes  and  she  knew  it  before  she  had  finished 
speaking,  for  his  look  was  maddening.  It  enraged  her 
even  further  and  she  shook  in  the  air  the  hand  with  the 
big  purple  amethyst  ring,  still  clutching  the  end  of  the 
bedizened  purple  scarf.  She  was  intoxicated  with 
triumph — for  she  had  reached  him. 

"I  will!     I  will!"  she  cried.     "I  will — to-morrow!" 

"You  will  not !"  his  voice  rang  out  as  she  had  never 
heard  it  before.  He  even  took  a  step  forward.  Then 


308  EOBIK 

came  the  Lurried  leap  of  feet  up  the  narrow  staircase 
and  Owen  Delamore  flung  the  door  wide,  panting: 

"You  told  me  to  dash  in,"  he  almost  shouted. 
"They're  coming !  We  can  rush  round  to  the  Sinclairs'. 
They're  on  the  roof  already !" 

She  caught  the  purple  scarf  around  her  and  ran  to 
wards  him,  for  at  this  new  excitement  her  frenzy  reached 
its  highest  note. 

"I  will !  I  will !"  she  called  back  to  Coombe  as  she 
fled  out  of  the  room  and  she  held  up  and  waved  at  him 
again  the  hand  with  the  big  amethyst.  "I  will,  to 
morrow  !" 

*  #  *  *  * 

Lord  Coombe  was  left  standing  in  the  garish,  crowded 
little  drawing-room  listening  to  ominous  sounds  in  the 
street — to  cries,  running  feet  and  men  on  fleeing  bicycles 
shouting  warnings  as  they  sped  at  top  speed  and  strove 
to  clear  the  way. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IT  was  one  of  the  raids  which  left  hellish  things 
behind  it — things  hushed  with  desperate  combined 
effort  to  restrain  panic,  biit  which  blighted  the 
air  people  strove  to  breathe  and  kept  men  and  women 
shuddering  for  long  after  and  made  people  waken  with 
sharp  cries  from  nightmares  of  horror.  Certain  paled 
faces  belonged  to  those  who  had  seen  things  and  would 
never  forget  them.  Others  strove  to  look  defiant  and 
cheerful  and  did  not  find  it  easy.  Some  tried  to  get 
past  policemen  to  certain  parts  of  the  city  and  some, 
getting  past,  returned  livid  and  less  adventurous  in  spirit 
because  they  had  heard  things  it  was  gruesome  to  hear. 
Lord  Coombe  went  the  next  morning  to  the  slice  of  a 
house  and  found  the  servants  rather  hysterical.  Feather 
had  not  returned,  but  they  were  not  hysterical  for  that 
reason.  She  had  probably  remained  at  the  house  to 
which  she  had  gone  to  see  the  Zepps.  After  the  excite 
ment  was  over,  people  like  the  Sinclairs  were  rather  in 
clined  to  restore  themselves  by  making  a  night  of  it,  so 
to  speak. 

As  "to-morrow"  had  now  arrived,  Lord  Coombe  wished 
to  see  her  on  her  return.  He  had  in  fact  lain  awake 
thinking  of  plans  of  defence  but  had  so  far  been  able 
to  decide  on  none.  If  there  had  been  anything  to  touch, 
to  appeal  to,  there  might  have  been  some  hope,  but  she 
had  left  taste  and  fastidiousness  scattered  in  shreds 
behind  her.  The  War,  as  she  put  it,  had  made  her  less 
afraid  of  life.  She  had  in  fact  joined  the  army  of 

309 


310  KOBLN 

women  who  could  always  live  so  long  as  their  beauty 
lasted.  At  the  beginning  of  her  relations  with  Lord 
Coombe  she  had  belonged  in  a  sense  to  a  world  which 
now  no  longer  existed  in  its  old  form.  Possibly  there 
would  soon  be  neither  courts  nor  duchesses  and  so  why 
should  anything  particularly  matter?  There  were 
those  who  were  taking  cataclysms  lightly  and  she  was 
among  them.  If  her  airy  mind  chanced  to  have  veered 
and  her  temper  died  down,  money  or  jewels  might 
induce  her  to  keep  quiet  if  one  could  e'ndure  the  unspeak 
able  indignity  of  forcing  oneself  to  offer  them.  She 
would  feel  such  an  offer  no  indignity  and  would  prob 
ably  regard  it  as  a  tremendous  joke.  But  she  could  no 
more  be  trusted  than  a  female  monkey  or  jackdaw. 

Lord  Coombe  sat  among  the  gewgaws  in  the  drawing 
room  and  waited  because  he  must  see  her  when  she 
came  in  and  at  least  discover  if  the  weather  cock  had 
veerecl. 

After  waiting  an  hour  or  more  he  heard  a  taxi  arrive 
at  the  front  door  and  stop  there.  He  went  to  the  window 
to  see  who  got  out  of  the  vehicle.  It  gave  him  a  slight 
shock  to  recognise  a  man  he  knew  well.  He  wore  plain 
clothes,  but  he  was  a  member  of  the  police  force. 

He  evidently  came  into  the  house  and  stopped  in  the 
hall  to  talk  to  the  immature  footman  who  presently 
appeared  at  the  drawing-room  door,  looking  shaken  be 
cause  he  had  been  questioned  and  did  not  know  what  it 
portended. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Lord  Coombe  assisted  him 
with. 

"Some  one  who  is  asking  about  Mrs.  Gareth-Lawless. 
He  doesn't  seem  satisfied  with  what  I  tell  him.  I  took 
the  liberty  of  saying  your  lordship  was  here  and  perhaps 
you'd  see  him." 


KOBLN"  311 

"Bring  him  upstairs." 

It  was  in  fact  a  man  who  knew  Lord  Coombe  well 
enough  to  be  aware  that  he  need  make  no  delay. 

"It  was  one  of  the  worst,  my  lord,"  he  said  in  answer 
to  Coombe's  first  question.  "We've  had  hard  work — 
and  the  hardest  of  it  was  to  hold  things — people — back." 
He  looked  hag-ridden  as  lie  went  on  .without  any  prepa 
ration.  He  was  too  tired  for  prefaces. 

"There  was  a  lady  who  went  out  of  here  last  night. 
She  was  with  a  gentleman.  They  were  running  to  a 
friend's  house  to  see  things  from  the  roof.  They  didn't 
get  there.  The  gentleman  is  in  the  hospital  delirious 
to-day.  He  doesn't  know  what  happened.  It's  sup 
posed  something  frightened  her  and  she  lost  her  wits 
and  ran  away.  The  gentleman  tried  to  follow  her  but 
the  lights  were  out  and  he  couldn't  find  her  in  the  dark 
streets.  The  running  about  and  all  the  noises  and 
crashes  sent  him  rather  wild  perhaps.  Trying  to  find 
a  frightened  woman  in  the  midst  of  all  that — and  not 
finding  her — " 

"What  ghastly — damnable  thing  has  happened?" 
Coombe  asked  with  stiff  lips. 

"It's  both,"  the  man  said,  "—it's  both." 

He  produced  a  package  and  opened  it.  There  was  a 
torn  and  stained  piece  of  spangled  violet  gauze  folded 
in  it  and  on  top  was  a  little  cardboard  box  which  he 
opened  also  to  show  a  ring  with  a  big  amethyst  in  it  set 
with  pearls. 

"Good  God !"  Coombe  ejaculated,  getting  up  from  his 
chair  hastily,  "Oh!  Good  God!" 

"You  know  them?"  the  man  asked. 

"Yes.     I  saw  them  last  night — before  she  went  out." 

"She  ran  the  wrong  way — she  must  have  been  crazy 
with  fright.  This — "  the  man  hesitated  a  second  here 


312  KOBIN 

and  pulled  himself  together,  " — this  is  all  that  was 
found  except — " 

"Good  God !"  said  Lord  Coomhe  again  and  he  walked 
to  and  fro  rapidly,  trying  to  hold  his  body  rigid. 

"The  gentleman — his  name  is  Delamore — went  on 
looking — after  the  raid  was  over.  Some  one  saw  him 
running  here  and  there  as  if  he  had  gone  crazy.  He 
was  found  afterwards  where  he'd  fainted — near  a 
woman's  hand  with  this  ring  on  and  the  piece  of  scarf  in 
it.  He's  a  strong  young  chap  but  he'd  fainted  dead. 
He  was  carried  to  the  hospital  and  to-day  he's  delirious." 

"There — was  nothing  more  ?"  shuddered  Coombe. 

"Nothing,  my  lord." 

*  #•  *  *-  * 

Out  of  unbounded  space  embodied  nothingness  had 
seemed  to  float  across  the  world  of  living  things,  and  in 
to  space  the  nothingness  had  disappeared — leaving  be 
hind  a  trinket  and  a  rent  scrap  of  purple  gauze. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIX 

SIX  weeks  later  Coombe  was  driven  again  up  the 
climbing  road  to  Darreuch.  There  was  some 
thing  less  of  colour  than  usual  in  his  face,  but  the 
slightly  vivid  look  of  shock  observing  persons  had  been 
commenting  upon  had  died  out.  As  he  had  travelled, 
leaning  back  upon  the  cushions  of  the  railway  carriage, 
he  had  kept  his  eyes  closed  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
journey.  When  at  last  he  began  to  open  them  and  look 
out  at  the  increasingly  beautiful  country  he  also  began  to 
look  rested  and  calm.  He  already  felt  the  nearing 
peace  of  the  shrine  and  added  to  it  was  an  immense 
relaxing  and  uplift.  A  girl  of  a  type  entirely  different 
from  Robin's  might,  he  knew,  have  made  him  feel  dur 
ing  the  past  months  as  if  he  were  taking  part  in  a  melo 
drama.  This  she  had  wholly  saved  him  from  by  the 
clear  simplicity  of  her  natural  acceptance  of  all  things 
as  they  were.  She  had  taken  and  given  without  a  word. 
He  was,  as  it  were,  going  home  to  her  now,  as  deeply 
thrilled  and  moved  as  a  totally  different  type  of  man 
might  have  gone — a  man  who  was  simpler. 

The  things  he  might  once  have  been  and  felt  were  at 
work  within  him.  Again  he  longed  to  see  the  girl — he 
wanted  to  see  her.  He  was  going  to  the  castle  in 
response  to  a  telegram  from  Dowie.  All  was  well  over. 
She  was  safe.  For  the  rest,  all  calamity  had  been  kept 
from  her  knowledge  and,  as  he  had  arranged  it,  the 
worst  would  never  reach  her.  In  course  of  time  she 

313 


314  ROBIN; 

would  learn  all  it  was  necessary  that  she  should  know  of 
her  mother's  death. 

When  Mrs.  Macaur  led  him  to  one  of  his  own  rooms 
she  glowed  red  and  expectantly  triumphant. 

"The  young  lady,  your  lordship — it  was  wonderfu' !" 

But  before  she  had  time  to  say  more  Dowie  had 
appeared  and  her  face  was  smooth  and  serene  to  marvel- 
lousness. 

"The  Almighty  himself  has  been  in  this  place,  my 
lord/'  she  said  devoutly.  "I  didn't  send  more  than  a 
word,  because  she's  like  a  schoolroom  child  about  it. 
She  wants  to  tell  you  herself."  The  woman  was  quiver 
ing  with  pure  joy. 

"May  I  see  her?" 

"She's  waiting,  my  lord." 

Honey  scents  of  gorse  and  heather  blew  softly  through 
the  open  windows  of  the  room  he  was  taken  to.  He  did 
not  know  enough  of  such  things  to  be  at  all  sure  what  he 
had  expected  to  see — but  what  he  moved  quickly  to 
wards,  the  moment  after  his  entrance,  was  Robin  lying 
fair  as  a  wild  rose  on  her  pillows — not  pale,  not  tragic, 
but  with  her  eyes  wide  and  radiant  as  a  shining  child's. 

Her  smiling  made  his  heart  stand  still.  He  really 
could  not  speak.  But  she  could  and  turned  back  the 
covering  to  show  him  what  lay  in  her  soft  curved  arm. 

"He  is  not  like  me  at  all,"  was  her  joyous  exulting. 
"He  is  exactly  like  Donal." 


The  warm,  tender  breathing,  semi-dormant,  scarcely 
sentient-seeming  thing  might  indeed  have  been  the  rein 
carnation  of  what  had  in  the  past  so  peculiarly  reached 
bodily  perfection.  Robin,  who  mysteriously  knew  every 
line  and  curve  of  the  new-born  body,  could  point  out 


ROBIN  315 

how  each  limb  and  feature  was  an  embryonic  replica. 

"Though  he  looks  so  tiny,  he  is  not  really  little,"  was 
her  lovely  yearning  boast.  "He  is  really  very  big. 
Dowie  has  known  hundreds  of  babies  and  they  were 
none  of  them  as  big  as  he  is.  He  is  a  giant — an  angel 
giant,"  burying  her  face  in  the  soft  red  neck. 

"It  seemed  to  change  me  into  another  type  of  man," 
Coombe  once  said  to  the  Duchess. 

The  man  into  whom  he  had  been  transformed  was  he 
who  lived  through  the  next  few  days  at  Darreuch  even 
as  though  life  were  a  kindly  faithful  thing.  Many  other 
men,  he  told  himself,  must  have  lived  as  he  did  and  he 
wondered  if  any  of  them  ever  forgot  it.  It  was  a  thing 
set  apart. 

He  sat  by  Robin's  side;  they  talked  together;  he 
retired  to  his  own  rooms  or  went  out  for  a  long  walk, 
coming  back  to  her  to  talk  again,  or  read  aloud,  or  to 
consider  with  her  the  marvel  of  the  small  thing  by  her 
side,  examining  curled  hands  and  feet  with  curious  in 
terest. 

"But  though  they  look  so  little,  they  are  not  really," 
she  always  said.  "See  how  long  his  fingers  are  and 
how  they  taper.  And  his  foot  is  long,  too,  and  narrow 
and  arched.  DonaFs  was  like  it." 

"Was,"  she  said,  and  he  wondered  if  she  might  not 
feel  a  pang  as  he  himself  did. 

He  wondered  often  and  sometimes,  when  he  sat  alone 
in  his  room  at  night,  found  something  more  than  won 
der  in  his  mind — something  that,  if  she  had  not  forbid 
den  it,  would  have  been  fear  because  of  strange  things 
he  saw  in  her. 

He  could  not  question  her.  He  dared  not  even 
remotely  touch  on  the  dream.  She  was  so  well,  her 
child  was  so  well.  She  was  as  any  young  mother  might 


316  KOBIN 

have  been  who  could  be  serene  in  her  husband's  absence 
because  she  knew  he  was  safe  and  would  soon  return. 

"Is  she  always  as  calm?"  he  once  asked  Dowie. 
"Does  she  never  seem  to  be  reminded  of  what  would 
have  been  if  he  were  alive?" 

Dowie  shook  her  head  and  he  saw  that  the  old  anxious- 
ness  came  back  upon  her. 

"My  lord,  she  believes  he  is  alive  when  she  sees  him. 
That's  what  troubles  me  even  in  my  thankfulness.  I 
don't  understand,  God  help  me !  I  was  afraid  when  she 
saw  the  child  that  it  might  all  come  over  her  again  in 
a  way  that  would  do  her  awful  harm.  "But  when  I 
laid  the  little  thing  down  by  her  she  just  lay  there  her 
self  and  looked  at  it  as  if  something  was  uplifting  her. 
And  in  a  few  seconds  she  whispered,  TEEe  is  like  Donal.' 
And  then  she  said  to  herself,  soft  but  quite  clear,  'Donal, 
Donal  !'  And  never  a  tear  rose.  Perhaps,"  hesitating 
over  it?  "it's  the  blessedness  of  time.  A  child's  a  won 
derful  thing — and  so  is  time.  Sometimes,"  a  queer 
sigh  broke  from  her,  "when  I've  been  hard  put  to  it  by 
trouble,  I've  said  to  myself,  'Well  the  Almighty  did  give 
us  time — whatever  else  he  takes  away.' ' 

But  Coombe  mysteriously  felt  that  it  was  not  merely 
time  which,  had  calmed  her,  though  any  explanation 
founded  on  material  reasoning  became  more  remote 
each  day.  The  thought  which  came  to  him  at  times  had 
no  connection  with  temporal  things.  He  found  he  was 
gravely  asking  himself  what  aspect  mere  life  would 
have  worn  if  Alixe  had  come  to  him.  every  night  in  such 
form  as  had  given  him  belief  in  the  absolute  reality  of 
her  being.  If  he  had  been  convinced  that  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Alixe — if  she  had  smiled  and  touched  him  with 
her  white  hands  as  she  had  never  touched  him  in  life — 


KOBIN  317 

if  her  eyes  had  been  unafraid  and  they  had  spoken  to 
gether  "only  of  happy  things" — and  had  understood  as 
one  soul — what  could  the  mere  days  have  held  of  hurt  ? 
There  was  only  one  possible  reply  and  it  seemed  to  ex 
plain  his  feeling  that  she  was  sustained  by  something 
which  was  not  alone  the  mere  blessedness  of  time. 

He  became  conscious  one  morning  of  the  presence 
of  a  new  expression  in  her  eyes.  There  was  a  bravo 
radiance  in  them  and,  before,  he  had  known  that  in 
their  radiance  there  had  been  no  necessity  for  bravery. 
He  felt  a  subtle  but  curious  difference. 

Her  child  had  been  long  asleep  and  she  lay  like  a 
white  dove  on  her  pillows  when  he  came  to  make  his 
brief  good-night  visit  She  was  very  still  and  seemed 
to  be  thinking.  Her  touch  on  his  arm  was  as  the  touch 
of  a  butterfly  when  she  at  last  put  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"He  may  not  come  to-night,"  she  said. 

He  put  his  own  hand  over  hers  and  hoped  it  was  done 
quietly. 

"But  to-morrow  night?'7  trusting  that  his  tone  was 
quiet  also.  It  must  be  quiet. 

"Perhaps  not  for  a  good  many  nights.  He  does  not 
know.  I  must  not  ask  things.  I  never  do." 

"But  it  has  been  so  wonderful  that  you  know — " 

On  what  plane  was  he — on  what  plane  was  she? 
What  plane  were  they  talking  about  with  such  un- 
doubtingness  ?  Heaven  be  praised  his  voice  actually 
sounded  natural. 

"I  do  not  know  much — except  that  he  is  Donal. 
And  I  can  never  feel  as  if  I  were  dead  again — never." 

"No,"  he  answered..    "Never!" 

She  lay  so  still  for  a  few  minutes  that  if  her  eyes 
had  not  been  open  he  would  have  thought  she  was  falling 


318  ROBUST 

asleep.     They  were  so  dreamy  that  perhaps  she  was 
falling  asleep  and  he  softly  rose  to  leave  her. 

"I  think — he  is  trying  to  come  nearer,"  she  mur 
mured.     "Good-night,  dear." 


CHAPTER  XL 

OMINOUS  hours  had  come  and  gone;  waves 
of  gloom  had  surged  in  and  receded,  but 
never  receded  far  enough.  It  was  as  though 
the  rising  and  falling  of  some  primaeval  storm  was  the 
background  of  all  thought  and  life  and  its  pande 
monium  of  sound  foretold  the  far-off  heaving  of  some 
vast  tidal  wave,  gathering  its  unearthly  power  as  it 
swelled. 

Coombe  talking  to  his  close  friend  in  her  few  quiet 
hours  at  Eaton  Square,  found  a  support  in  the  very  at 
mosphere  surrounding  her. 

"The  world  at  war  creates  a  prehistoric  uproar," 
he  said.  "The  earth  called  out  of  chaos  to  take  form 
may  have  produced  some  such  tempestuous  crash.  But 
there  is  a  far-off  glow — " 

"You  believe — something — I  believe  too.  But  the 
prehistoric  darkness  and  uproar  are  so  appalling.  One 
loses  hold."  The  Duchess  leaned  forward  her  voice 
dropping.  "What  do  you  know  that  I  do  not?" 

"The  light  usually  breaks  in  the  East,"  Coombe  an 
swered. 

"It  is  breaking  in  the  West  to-day.  It  has  always 
been  there  and  it  has  been  spreading  from  the  first. 
At  any  moment  it  may  set  the  sky  aflame." 

For  as  time  had  gone  on  the  world  had  beheld  the 
colossal  spectacle  of  a  huge  nation  in  the  melting  pbt, 
And,  as  it  was  as  a  nation  the  composite  result  of  the 
fusion  of  all  the  countries  of  the  earth,  the  breath- 

319 


320  KOBIN 

suspended  lookers-on  beheld  it  in  effect,  passionately 
commercial,  passionately  generous,  passionately  sordid, 
passionately  romantic,  chivalrous,  cautious,  limited, 
bounded.  As  American  wealth  and  sympathy  poured 
in  where  need  was  most  dire,  bitterness  became  silent 
through  sheer  discretion's  sake,  when  for  no  more  honest 
reason.  As  the  commercial  tendency  expressed  itself 
in  readiness  and  efficiency,  sneering  condemnation  had 
become  less  loud. 

"It  will  happen.  It  is  the  result  of  the  ideals  really," 
Coombe  said  further.  "And  it  will  come  to  pass  at  the 
exact  psychological  moment.  If  they  had  come  in  at 
the  beginning  they  would  have  faced  the  first  full  force 
of  the  monstrous  tidal  wave  of  the  colossal  German  be 
lief  in  its  own  omnipotence — and  they  would  have 
faced  it  unawakened,  unenraged  by  monstrosities  and 
half  incredulous  of  the  truth.  It  was  not  even  their 
fight  then— and  raw  fighters  need  a  flaming  cause.  But 
the  tower  of  agonies  has  built  itself  to  its  tottering 
height  before  their  blazing  eyes.  ~Now  it  is  their  fight 
because  it  is  the  fight  of  the  whole  world.  Others  have 
borne  the  first  fierce  heat  and  burden  of  the  day,  but 
they  will  rush  in  young  and  untouched  by  calamity — 
bounding,  shouting  and  singing.  They  will  come 
armed  with  all  that  long-borne  horrors  and  maddening 
human  fatigue  most  need.  I  repeat — it  will  occur  at 
the  exact  psychological  moment.  They  will  bring  red- 
hot  blood  and  furious  unbounded  courage —  And  it 
will  be  the  end." 

In  fact  Coombe  waited  with  a  tense  sensation  of  being 
too  tightly  strung.  He  had  hours  when  he  felt  that 
something  might  snap.  But  nothing  must  snap  yet, 
He  was  too  inextricably  entangled  in  the  arduous  work 


KOBLNT  321 

even  to  go  to  Darreuch  for  rest.  He  did  not  go  for 
weeks.  All  was  well  there  however — marvellously  well 
it  seemed,  even  when  he  held  in  mind  a  letter  from  Robin 
which  had  ended: — 

"He  has  not  come  back.  But  I  am  not  afraid.  I 
promised  him  I  would  never  be  afraid  again." 

In  dark  and  tired  hours  he  steadied  himself  with  a 
singular  half-realised  belief  that  she  would  not — that 
somehow  some  strange  thing  would  be  left  to  her,  what 
soever  was  taken  away.  It  was  because  he  felt  as  if 
he  were  nearing  the  end  of  his  tether.  He  had  be 
come  hypersensitive  to  noises,  to  the  sounds  in  the 
streets,  to  the  strain  and  grief  in  faces  he  saw  as  he 
walked  or  drove. 


After  lying  awake  all  one  night  without  a  moment  of 
blank  peace  he  came  down  pale  and  saw  that  his  hand 
shook  as  he  held  his  coffee  cup.  It  was  a  livid  sort  of 
morning  and  when  he  went  out  for  the  sake  of  exercise 
he  found  he  was  looking  at  each  of  the  strained  faces 
as  if  it  held  some  answer  to  an  unformed  question. 
He  realised  that  the  tenseness  of  both  mind  and  body 
had  increased.  For  no  reason  whatever  he  was  re- 
strung  by  a  sense  of  waiting  for  something — as  if  some 
thing  were  going  to  happen. 

He  went  back  to  Coombe  House  and  when  he  crossed 
the  threshold  he  confronted  the  elderly  unliveried  man 
who  had  stood  at  his  place  for  years — and  the  usually 
unperturbed  face  was  agitated  so  nearly  to  panic  that  he 
stopped  and  addressed  him. 

"Has/ anything  happened?" 

"My  lord — a  Bed  Cross  nurse — has  brought" — he 
was  actually  quite  unsteady — too  unsteady  to  finish,  for 


322  ROBIE" 

the  next  moment  the  Red  Cross  nurse  was  at  his  side 
— looking  very  whitely  fresh  and  clean  and  with  a 
nice,  serious  youngish  face. 

"I  need  not  prepare  you  for  good  news — even  if  it 
is  a  sort  of  shock/'  she  said,  watching  him  closely.  "I 
have  brought  Captain  Muir  back  to  you." 

"You  have  brought — ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"He  has  been  in  one  of  the  worst  German  prisons. 
He  was  left  for  dead  on  the  field  and  taken  prisoner. 
We  must  not  ask  him  questions.  I  don't  know  why 
he  is  alive.  He  escaped,  God  knows  how.  At  this 
time  he  does  not  know  himself.  I  saw  him  on  the  boat. 
He  asked  me  to  take  charge  of  him,"  she  spoke  very 
quickly.  "He  is  a  skeleton,  poor  boy.  Come." 

She  led  the  way  to  his  own  private  room.  She  went 
on  talking  short  hurried  sentences,  but  he  scarcely  heard 
her.  This,  then,  was  what  he  had  been  waiting  for. 
Why  had  he  not  known?  This  tremendous  thing  was 
really  not  so  tremendous  after  all  because  it  had  hap 
pened  in  other  cases  before — •  Yet  he  had  never  once 
thought  of  it. 

"He  would  not  let  his  wife  or  his  mother  see  him 
until  he  looked  more  like  himself,"  he  heard  the  Red 
Cross  nurse  say  as  he  entered  the  room. 

Donal  was  lying  stretched  at  full  length  on  a  sofa. 
He  looked  abnormally  long,  because  he  was  so  thin  that 
he  was,  as  the  nurse  had  said,  a  skeleton.  His  face  was 
almost  a  death's  head,  but  his  blue  eyes  looked  xmt  of 
their  great  hollow  sockets  clear  as  tarn  water,  and 
with  the  smile  which  Coombe  would  not  have  forgotten 
howsoever  long  life  had  dragged  out. 

"Be  very  careful!"  whispered  the  nurse. 

He  knew  he  must  be  careful.     Only  the  eyes  were 


ROBIN  323 

alive.  The  body  was  a  collapsed  thing.  He  seemed 
scarcely  breathing,  his  voice  was  a  thread. 

"Robin!"  Coombe  caught  as  he  bent  close  to  him. 
"Robin!" 

"She  is  well,  dear  boy!"  How  his  voice  shook! 
"I  have  taken  care  of  her." 

The  light  leaped  up  into  the  blue  for  a  second.  The 
next  the  lids  dropped  and  the  nurse  sprang  forward  be 
cause  he  had  slipped  into  a  faint  so  much  like  death  that 
it  might  well  have  rent  hope  from  a  looker-on. 

For  the  next  hour,  and  indeed  for  many  following, 
there  was  unflagging  work  to  be  done.  The  Red  Cross 
Nurse  was  a  capable,  swiftly  moving  woman,  with  her 
resources  at  her  finger's  ends,  and  her  quick  wits  about 
her.  Almost  immediately  two  doctors  from  the  staff, 
in  charge  of  the  rooms  upstairs  were  on  the  spot  and  at 
work  with  her.  By  what  lightning-flashed  sentences 
she  conveyed  to  them,  without  pausing  for  a  second, 
the  facts  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  know,  was  in 
comprehensible  to  Coombe,  who  could  only  stand  afar 
off  and  wait,  watching  the  dead  face.  Its  sunken 
temples,  cheeks  and  eyes,  and  the  sharply  carven  bone 
outline  were  heart  gripping. 

It  seemed  hours  before  one  of  the  doctors  as  he  bent 
over  the  couch  whispered, 

"The  breathing  is  a  little  better — " 

It  was  not  possible  that  he  should  be  moved,  but  the 
couch  was  broad  and  deeply  upholstered  and  could  be 
used  temporarily  as  a  bed.  Every  resource  of  medical 
science  was  within  reach.  Nurse  Jones,  who  had  been 
on  her  way  home  to  take  a  rest,  was  so  far  ensnared  by 
unusual  interest  that  she  wished  to  be  allowed  to  re 
main  on  duty.  There  were  other  nurses  who  could  be 


324  KOBIN 

called  on  at  any  moment  of  either  night  or  day.  There 
were  doctors  of  indisputable  skill  who  were  also  fired 
by  the  mere  histrionic  features  of  the  case.  The  hand 
some,  fortunate  young  fellow  who  had  been  supposed 
torn  to  fragments  had  by  some  incomprehensible  luck 
been  aided  to  drag  himself  home — perhaps  to  die  of 
pure  exhaustion. 

Was  it  really  hours  before  Coombe  saw  the  closed  eyes 
weakly  open  ?  But  the  smile  was  gone  and  they  seemed 
to  be  looking  at  something  not  in  the  room. 

"They  will  come — in,"  the  words  dragged  out 
scarcely  to  be  heard.  "Jackson — said — said — they — 
would."  The  eyes  dropped  again  and  the  breathing  was 
a  mere  flutter. 

Nurse  Jones  was  in  fact  filled  with  much  curiosity 
concerning  and  interest  in  the  Marquis  of  Coombe.  She 
was  a  clever  and  well  trained  person,  but  socially  a 
simple  creature,  who  in  an  inoffensive  way  "loved  a 
lord."  If  her  work  had  not  absorbed  her  she  could 
not  have  kept  her  eyes  from  this  finely  conventional 
and  rather  unbending-looking  man  who — keeping  him 
self  out  of  the  way  of  all  who  were  in  charge  of  the 
seemingly  almost  dead  boy — still  would  not  leave  the 
room,  and  watched  him  with  a  restrained  passion  of 
such  feeling  as  it  was  not  natural  to  see  in  the  eyes  of 
men.  Marquis  or  not  he  had  gone  through  frightful 
things  in  his  life  and  this  boy  meant  something  tremen 
dous  to  him.  If  he  couldn't  be  brought  back — !  De 
spite  the  work  her  swift  eye  darted  sideways  at  the 
Marquis. 

When  at  length  another  nurse  took  her  place  and 
she  was  going  out  of  the  room,  he  moved  quickly  to 
wards  her  and  spoke. 

"May  I  ask  if  I  may  speak  to  you  alone  for  a  few 


EOBIN  325 

minutes  ?  I  have  no  right  to  keep  you  from  your  rest. 
I  assure  you  I  won't." 

"I'll  come,"  she  answered.  What  she  saw  in  the 
man's  face  was  that,  because  she  had  brought  the  boy,  he 
actually  clung  to  her.  She  had  been  clung  to  many 
times  before,  but  never  by  a  man  who  looked  quite  like 
this.  There  was  more  than  you  could  see. 

He  led  her  to  a  smaller  room  near  by.  He  made 
her  sit  down,  but  he  did  not  sit  himself.  It  was  plain 
that  he  did  not  mean  to  keep  her  from  her  bed — though 
he  was  in  hard  case  if  ever  man  was.  His  very  deter 
mination  not  to  impose  on  her  caused  her  to  make  up 
her  mind  to  tell  him  all  she  could,  though  it  wasn't 
much. 

"Captain  Muir's  mother  believes  that  he  is  dead," 
he  said.  "It  is  plain  that  no  excitement  must  ap 
proach  him — even  another  person's  emotion.  He  was 
her  idol.  She  is  in  London.  Must  I  send  for  her — 
or  would  it  be  safe  to  wait  ?" 

"There  have  been  minutes  to-day  when  if  I'd  known 
he  had  a  mother  I  should  have  said  she  must  be  sent 
for,"  was  her  answer.  "To-night  I  believe — yes, 
I  do — that  it  would  be  better  to  wait  and  watch.  Of 
course  the  doctors  must  really  decide." 

"Thank  you.  I  will  speak  to  them.  But  I  confess 
I  wanted  to  ask  you."  How  he  did  cling  to  her! 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  again.     "I  will  not  keep  you." 

He  opened  the  door  and  waited  for  her  to  pass — as 
if  she  had  been  a  marchioness  herself,  she  thought  In 
spite  of  his  desperate  eyes  he  didn't  forget  a  single 
thing.  He  so  moved  her  that  she  actually  turned  back. 

"You  don't  know  anything  yet —  Some  one  you're 
fond  of  coming  back  from  the  grave  must  make  you 
half  mad  to  know  how  it  happened/'  she  said.  "I  don't 


326  ROBIN 

know  much  myself,  but  I'll  tell  you  all  I  was  able  to 
find  out  He  was  light  headed  when  I  found  him  try 
ing  to  get  on  the  boat.  When  I  spoke  to  him  he  just 
caught  my  hand  and  begged  me  to  stay  with  him.  He 
wanted  to  get  to  you.  He'd  been  wandering  about, 
starved  and  hiding.  If  he'd  been  himself  he  could  have 
got  help  earlier.  But  he'd  been  ill  treated  and  had 
seen  things  that  made  him  lose  his  balance.  He  couldn't 
tell  a  clear  story.  He  was  too  weak  to  talk  clearly. 
But  I  asked  questions  now  and  then  and  listened  to 
every  word  he  said  when  he  rambled  because  of  his 
fever.  Jackson  was  a  fellow  prisoner  who  died  of 
hemorrhage  brought  on  by  brutality.  Often  I  couldn't 
understand  him,  but  he  kept  bringing  in  the  name  of 
Jackson.  One  thing  puzzled  me  very  much.  He  said 
several  times  'Jackson  taught  me  to  dream  of  Robin.  I 
should  never  have  seen  Robin  if  I  hadn't  known  Jack 
son.'  Now  'Robin'  is  a  boy's  name — but  he  said  'her* 
and  'she'  two  or  three  times  as  if  it  were  a  girl's." 

"Robin  is  his  wife,"  said  Coombe.  He  really  found 
the  support  of  the  door  he  still  held  open,  useful  for  the 
moment. 

An  odd  new  interest  sharpened  in  her  eyes. 

"Then  he's  been  dreaming  of  her."  She  almost 
jerked  it  out — as  if  in  sudden  illumination  almost  re 
lief.  "He's  been  dreaming  of  her — !  And  it  may 
have  kept  him  alive."  She  paused  as  if  she  were  asking 
questions  of  her  own  mind.  "I  wonder,"  dropped  from 
her  in  slow  speculation,  "if  she  has  been  dreaming  of 
Urn?" 

"He  was  not  dead — he  was  not  an  angel — he  was 
Donal!"  Robin  had  persisted  from  the  first.  He  had 
not  been  dead.  In  some  incredibly  hideous  German 
prison — in  the  midst  of  inhuman  horrors  and  the  black- 


KOBIN  327 

ness  of  what  must  have  been  despair — he  had  been  alive, 
and  had  dreamed  as  she  had. 

Nurse  Jones  looked  at  him,  waiting.  Even  if  nurses 
had  not  been,  presumably,  under  some  such  bond  of 
honourable  secrecy  as  constrained  the  medical  profes 
sion,  he  knew  she  was  to  be  trusted.  Her  very  look 
told  him. 

"She  did  dream  of  him,"  he  said.  "She  was  slip 
ping  fast  down  the  slope  to  death  and  he  caught  her 
back.  He  saved  her  life  and  her  child's.  She  was  go 
ing  to  have  a  child." 

They  were  both  quite  silent  for  a  few  moments.  The 
room  was  still.  Then  the  woman  drew  her  hand  with  a 
quick  odd  gesture  across  her  forehead. 

"Queer  things  happened  in  the  last  century,  but 
queerer  ones  are  going  to  happen  in  this — if  people  will 
let  them.  Doctors  and  nurses  see  and  think  a  lot  they 
can't  talk  about.  They're  always  on  the  spot  at  what 
seems  to  be  the  beginning  and  the  ending.  These  black 
times  have  opened  up  the  ways.  'Queer  things/  I 
said,"  with  sudden  forcefulness.  "They're  not  queer. 
It's  only  laws  we  haven't  known  about.  It's  the  writ 
ing  on  the  scroll  that  we  couldn't  read.  We're  just 
learning  the  alphabet."  Then  after  a  minute  more  of 
thought,  "Those  two — were  they  particularly  fond  of 
each  other — more  to  each  other  than  most  young 
couples  ?" 

"They  loved  each  other  the  hour  they  first  met — 
when  they  were  little  children.  It  was  an  unnatural 
shock  to  them  both  when  they  were  parted.  They 
seemed  to  be  born  mated  for  life." 

"That  was  the  reason,"  she  said  quite  relievedly.  "I 
can  understand  that.  It's  as  orderly  as  the  stars." 
Then  she  added  with  a  sudden,  strong,  quite  normal 


328  KOBIN 

conviction,  and  her  tiredness  seemed  to  drop  from  her, 
"He  won't  die — that  beautiful  boy,"  she  said.  "He 
can't.  It's  not  meant.  They're  going  on,  those  three. 
He's  the  most  splendid  human  thing  I  ever  handled — 
skeleton  as  he  is.  His  very  bones  are  magnificent 
as  he  lies  there.  And  that  smile  of  his  that's  deep  in 
the  blue  his  eyes  are  made  of — it  can  only  flicker  up  for 
a  second  now — but  it  can't  go  out.  He's  safe,  even  this 
minute,  though  you  mayn't  believe  it." 

"I  do  believe  it,"  Coombe  said. 

And  he  stood  there  believing  it,  when  she  went 
through  the  open  door  and  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

IT  was  long  before  the  dropped  eyelids  could  lift 
and  hold  themselves  open  for  more  than  a  few 
seconds  and  long  before  the  eyes  wore  their  old 
clear  look.  The  depths  of  the  collapse  after  prolonged 
tortures  of  strain  and  fear  was  such  as  demanded  a  fierce 
and  unceasing  fight  of  skill  and  unswerving  determina 
tion  on  the  part  of  both  doctors  and  nurses.  There  were 
hours  when  what  seemed  to  be  strange,  deathly  drops 
into  abysses  of  space  struck  terror  into  most  of  those 
who  stood  by  looking  on.  But  Nurse  Jones  always 
believed  and  so  did  Coombe. 

"You  needn't  send  for  his  mother  yet,"  she  said 
without  flinching.  "You  and  I  know  something  the 
others  don't  know,  Lord  Coombe.  That  child  and  her 
baby  are  holding  him  back  though  they  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it." 

It  revealed  itself  to  him  that  her  interest  in  things 
occult  and  apparently  unexplained  by  material  processes 
had  during  the  last  few  years  intensely  absorbed  her  in 
private.  Her  feeling,  though  intense,  was  intelligent 
and  her  processes  of  argument  were  often  convincing. 
He  became  willing  to  answer  her  questions  because  he 
felt  sure  of  her.  He  lent  her  the  books  he  had  been 
reading  and  in  her  hard-earned  hours  of  leisure  she 
plunged  deep  into  them. 

"Perhaps  I  read  sometimes  when  I  ought  to  be  sleep 
ing,  but  it  rests  me — I  tell  you  it  rests  me.  I'm  finding 
out  that  there's  strength  outside  of  all  this  and  you  can 

329 


330  BQBEST 

draw  on  it  It's  there  waiting,"  she  said.  "Every 
body  will  know  about  its  being  there — in  course  of 
time." 

"But  the  time  seems  long,"  said  Coombe. 

Concerning  the  dream  she  had  many  interesting  the 
ories.  She  was  at  first  disturbed  and  puzzled  because 
it  had  stopped.  She  was  anxious  to  find  out  whether 
it  had  come  back  again,  but,  like  Lord  Coombe,  she 
realised  that  Robin's  apparent  calm  must  on  no  ac 
count  be  disturbed.  If  her  health-giving  serenity  could 
be  sustained  for  a  certain  length  of  time,  the  gates  of 
Heaven  would  open  to  her.  But  at  first  Nurse  Jones 
asked  herself  and  Lord  Coombe  some  troubled  ques 
tions. 

It  came  about  at  length  that  she  appeared  one  night, 
in  the  room  where  their  first  private  talk  had  taken 
place  and  she  had  presented  herself  on  her  way  to  bed, 
because  she  had  something  special  to  say. 

"It  came  to  me  when  I  awakened  this  morning  as  if 
it  had  been  told  to  me  in  the  night.  Things  often  seem 
to  come  that  way.  Do  you  remember,  Lord  Coombe, 
that  she  said  they  only  talked  about  happy  things  ?" 

"Yes.     She  said  it  several  times,"  Coombe  answered. 

"Do  you  remember  that  he  never  told  her  where  he 
came  from?  And  she  knew  that  she  must  not  ask 
questions  ?  How  could  he  have  told  her  of  that  hell — 
how  could  he  ?" 

"You  are  right — quite !" 

"I  feel  sure  I  am.  When  he  can  talk  he  will  tell 
you — if  he  remembers.  I  wonder  how  much  they  re 
member — except  the  relief  and  the  blessed  happiness  of 
it?  Lord  Coombe,  I  believe  as  I  believe  I'm  in  this 
room,  that  when  he  knew  he  was  going  to  face  the  awful 
risk  of  trying  to  escape,  he  knew  he  mustn't  tell  her. 


ROBIN  331 

And  he  knew  that  in  crawling  through  cfengers  and  hid 
ing  in  ditches  he  could  never  be  sure  of  being  able  to 
lie  down  to  sleep  and  concentrate  on  sending  his  soul 
to  her.  So  he  told  her  that  he  might  not  come  for  some 
time.  Oh,  Lord!  If  he'd  been  caught  and  killed  he 
could  never —  No!  No!"  obstinately,  "even  then  he 
would  have  got  back  in  some  form — in  some  way.  IVe 
got  to  the  point  of  believing  as  much  as  that.  He  was 
hers!" 

"Yes.     Yes.     Yes,"  was  all  his  slow  answer.     But 
there  was  deep  thought  in  each  detached  word   and 
when  she  went  away  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
with  leisurely  steps,  looking  down  at  the  carpet. 
»»'•».'-'»•* 

As  many  hours  of  the  day  and  night  as  those  in  au 
thority  would  allow  him  Lord  Coombe  sat  and  watched 
by  DonaPs  bed.  He  watched  from  well  hidden  anxious- 
ness  to  see  every  subtle  change  recording  itself  on  his 
being;  he  watched  from  throbbing  affection  and  long 
ing  to  see  at  once  any  tinge  of  growing  natural  colour, 
any  unconscious  movement  perhaps  a  shade  stronger 
than  the  last.  It  was  his  son  who  lay  there,  he  told  him 
self,  it  was  the  son  he  had  remotely  yearned  for  in  his 
loneliness ;  if  he  had  been  his  father  watching  his  sunk 
lids  with  bated  breath,  he  would  have  felt  just  these  un 
merciful  pangs. 

He  also  watched  because  in  the  boy's  hours  of  fevered 
unconsciousness  he  could  at  times  catch  words — some 
times  broken  sentences,  which  threw  ghastly  light  upon 
things  past.  Sometimes  their  significance  was  such  as 
made  him  shudder.  A  condition  the  doctors  moet 
dreaded  was  one  in  which  monstrous  scenes  seem  lived 
again — scenes  in  which  cruelties  and  maddening  suf 
ferings  and  despairing  death  itself  rose  vividly  from 


332  KOBIN 

the  depth  of  subconsciousness  and  cried  aloud  for  ven 
geance.  Sometimes  Donal  shuddered,  tearing  at  his 
chest  with  both  hands,  more  than  once  he  lay  sobbing 
until  only  skilled  effort  prevented  his  sobs  from  becom 
ing  choking  danger. 

"It  may  be  years  after  he  regains  his  strength,"  the 
chief  physician  said,  "years  before  it  will  be  safe  to 
ask  him  for  detail.  On  my  own  part  I  would  never 
bring  such  horrors  back  to  a  man.  You  may  have 
noticed  how  the  men  who  have  borne  most,  absolutely 
refuse  to  talk." 

"It's  an  accursed  fool  who  tries  to  make  them,"  broke 
in  one  of  the  younger  men.  "There  was  a  fellow  who 
had  been  pinned  up  against  a  barn  door  and  left  to 
hang  there — and  a  coarse,  loud-mouthed  lunatic  asked 
him  to  describe  how  it  felt.  The  chap  couldn't  stand 
it.  Do  you  know  what  he  did?  He  sprang  at  him 
and  knocked  him  down.  He  apologized  afterwards 
and  said  it  was  his  nerves.  But  there's  not  a  man  who 
was  there  who  will  ever  speak  to  that  other  brute  again." 

The  man  whose  name  was  Jackson  seemed  to  be  a 
clinging  memory  to  the  skeleton  when  its  mind  wan 
dered  in  the  past  Hades.  He  had  been  in  some  way  very 
close  to  the  boy.  He  had  died  somehow — cruelly. 
There  had  been  blood — blood — and  no  one  would  help. 
Some  devil  had  even  laughed.  When  that  scene  came 
back  the  doctors  and  nurses  held  their  breath  and  silently 
worked  hard.  Nothing  seemed  quite  as  heart-rending 
as  what  had  happened  to  Jackson.  But  there  were  end 
less  other  things  to  shudder  at.  * 

#  #  #  #  # 

So  the  time  passed  and  Nurse  Jones  found  many 
times  that  she  must  stop  at  his  door  on  her  way  to 


KOBIN  333 

her  rest  to  say,  "Don't  look  like  that,  Lord  Coombe. 
You  need  not  send  for  his  mother  yet." 

Then  at  last — and  it  had  been  like  travelling  for 
months  waterless  in  a  desert — she  came  in  one  day  with 
a  new  and  elate  countenance.  "Mrs.  Muir  is  a  quiet, 
self-controlled  woman,  isn't  she?"  she  asked. 

"Entirely  self-controlled  and  very  quiet,"  he  an 
swered. 

"Then  if  you  will  speak  to  Dr.  Beresford  about  it  I 
know  he  will  allow  her  to  see  Captain  Muir  for  a  few 
minutes:  And,  thank  God,  it's  not  because  if  she 
doesn't  see  him  now  she'll  never  see  him  alive  again. 
He  has  all  his  life  before  him." 

"Please  sit  down,  Nurse,"  Coombe  spoke  hastily  and 
placed  a  chair  as  he  spoke.  He  did  so  because  he  had 
perceiving  eyes. 

She  sat  down  and  covered  her  face  with  her  apron 
for  a  moment.  She  made  no  sound  or  movement,  but 
caught  a  deep  quick  breath  two  or  three  times.  The 
relaxed  strain  had  temporarily  overpowered  her.  She 
uncovered  her  face  and  got  up  almost  immediately. 
She  was  not  likely  to  give  way  openly  to  her  emotions. 

"Thank  you,  Lord  Coombe/'  she  said.  "I've  never 
had  a  case  that  gripped  hold  of  me  as  this  has.  I've 
often  felt  as  though  that  poor  half-killed  boy  was  more 
to  me  than  he  is.  You  might  speak  to  Dr.  Beresford 
now.  He's  just  gone  in." 

***** 

Therefore  Lord  Coombe  went  that  afternoon  to  the 
house  before  which  grew  the  plane  trees  whose  leaves 
had  rustled  in  the  dawn's  first  wind  on  the  morning 
Donal  had  sat  and  talked  with  his  mother  after  the 
night  of  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Darte's  dance. 


334  KOBI^T 

On  his  way  his  thoughts  were  almost  uncontrollable 
things  and  he  knew  the  first  demand  of  good  sense  was 
that  he  should  control  them.  But  he  was  like  an  un 
believable  messenger  from  another  world — a  dark  world 
unknown,  because  shadows  hid  it,  and  would  not  let 
themselves  be  pierced  by  streaming  human  eyes.  Donal 
was  dead.  This  was  what  would  fill  this  woman's 
mind  when  he  entered  her  house.  Donal  was  dead. 
It  was  the  thought  that  had  excluded  all  else  from 
life  for  her,  though  he  knew  she  had  gone  on  working 
as  other  broken  women  had  done.  What  did  people 
say  to  women  whose  sons  had  been  dead  and  had  come 
back  to  life?  It  had  happened  before.  What  could 
one  say  to  prepare  them  for  the  transcendent  shock  of 
joy?  What  preparation  could  there  be? 

"God  help  me!"  he  said  to  himself  with  actual  de- 
voutness  as  he  stood  at  the  door. 

He  had  seen  Helen  Muir  once  or  twice  since  the  news 
of  her  loss  had  reached  her  and  she  had  looked  like  a 
most  beautiful  ghost  and  shadow  of  herself.  When  she 
came  into  her  drawing-room  to  meet  him  she  was  more 
of  a  ghost  and  shadow  than  when  they  had  last  met 
and  he  saw  her  lips  quiver  at  the  mere  sight  of  him, 
though  she  came  forward  very  quietly. 

Whatsoever  helped  him  in  response  to  his  unconscious 
appeal  brought  to  him  suddenly  a  wave  of  comprehen 
sion  of  her  and  of  himself  as  creatures  unexpectedly 
near  each  other  as  they  had  never  been  before.  The 
feeling  was  remotely  akin  to  what  had  been  awakened 
in  him  by  the  pure  gravity  and  tenderness  of  Kobin's 
baptismal  good-bye  kiss.  He  was  human,  she  was  hu 
man,  they  had  both  been  forced  to  bear  suffering.  He 
was  bringing  joy  to  her. 

He  met  her  almost  as  she  entered  the  door.     He  made 


KOBIN  335 

several  quick  steps  and  lie  took  both  her  hands  in  his 
and  held  them.  It  was  a  thing  so  unheard  of  that  she 
stopped  and  stood  quite  still,  looking  up  at  him. 

"Come  and  sit  down  here/'  he  said,  drawing  her 
towards  a  sofa  and  he  did  not  let  her  hands  go,  and  sat 
down  at  her  side  while  she  stared  at  him  and  her 
breath  began  to  come  and  go  quickly. 

"What — ?"  she  began,  "You  are  changed — quite 
different—" 

"Yes,  I  am  changed.  Everything  is  changed — for 
us  both!" 

"For  us — "  She  touched  her  breast  weakly.  "For 
me — as  well  as  jou  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  and  he  still  held  her  hands 
protectingly  and  kept  his  altered  eyes — the  eyes  of  a 
strangely  new  man — upon  her.  They  were  living,  hu 
man,  longing  to  help  her — who  had  so  long  condemned 
him.  His  hands  were  even  warm  and  held  hers  as  if 
to  give  her  support. 

"You  are  a  calm,  well-balanced  woman/'  he  said. 
"And  joy  does  not  kill  people — even  hurt  them." 

There  could  be  only  one  joy — only  one!  And  she 
knew  he  knew  there  could  be  no  other.  She  sprang 
from  her  seat. 

"Donal!"  she  cried  out  so  loud  that  the  room  rang. 
"Donal!  Donal!" 

He  was  on  his  feet  also  because  he  still  wonderfully 
did  not  let  her  go. 

"He  is  at  my  house.  He  has  been  there  for  weeks 
because  we  have  had  to  fight  for  his  life.  We  should 
have  called  you  if  he  had  been  dying.  Only  an  hour 
ago  the  doctor  in  charge  gave  me  permission  to  oome 
to  you.  You  may  see  him — for  a  few  minutes." 

She  began  to  tremble  and  sat  down. 


336  KOBIN 

"I  shall  be  quiet  soon,"  she  said.  "Oh,  dear  God! 
God!  God!  Donal!" 

Tears  swept  down  her  cheeks  but  he  saw  her  begin 
to  control  herself  even  the  next  moment. 

"May  I  speak  to  him  at  all  ?"  she  asked. 

€/  JL 

"Kiss  him  and  tell  him  you  are  waiting  in  the  next 
room  and  can  come  back  any  moment.  What  the  hos 
pital  leaves  free  of  Coombe  House  is  at  your  disposal." 

"God  bless  you !     Oh,  forgive  me !" 

"He  escaped  from  a  German  prison  by  some  miracle. 
He  must  be  made  to  forget.  He  must  hear  of  nothing 
but  happiness.  There  is  happiness  before  him — enough 
to  force  him  to  forget.  You  will  accept  anything  he 
tells  you  as  if  it  were  a  natural  thing  ?" 

"Accept!"  she  cried.  "What  would  I  not  accept, 
praising  God!  You  are  preparing  me  for  something. 
Ah!  don't,  don't  be  afraid!  But — is  it  maiming — 
darkness  ?" 

"No !  ]STo !  It  is  a  perfect  thing.  You  must  know 
it  before  you  see  him — and  be  ready.  Before  he  went 
to  the  Front  he  was  married." 

"Married!"  in  a  mere  breath. 

Coombe  went  on  in  quick  sentences.  She  must  be 
prepared  and  she  could  bear  anything  in  the  rapture  of 
her  joy. 

"He  married  in  secret  a  lonely  child  whom  the 
Dowager  Duchess  of  Darte  had  taken  into  her  house 
hold.  We  have  both  taken  charge  of  her  since  we 
discovered  she  was  his  wife.  We  thought  she  was  his 
widow.  She  has  a  son.  Before  her  marriage  she  was 
Kobin  Gareth-Lawless." 

"Ah !"  she  cried  brokenly.  "He  would  have  told  me 
— he  wanted  to  tell  me — but  he  could  not — because  I 
was  so  hard!  Oh!  poor  motherless  children!" 


KOBIN  337 

"You  never  were  hard,  I  could  swear,"  Coombe  said. 
"But  perhaps  you  have  changed — as  I  have.  If  he 
had  not  thought  I  was  hard  he  might  have  told  me — 
Shall  we  go  to  him  at  once  ?" 

Together  they  went  without  a  moment's  delay. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE  dream  had  come  back  and  Robin  walked 
about  the  moor  carrying  her  baby  in  her  arms, 
even  though  Dowie  followed  her.  She  laid  him 
on  the  heather  and  let  him  listen  to  the  skylarks  and 
there  was  in  her  face  such  a  look,  that,  in  times  past 
if  she  had  seen  it,  Dowie  would  have  believed  that  it 
could  only  mean  translation  from  earth. 

But  when  Lord  Coombe  came  for  a  brief  visit  he 
took  Dowie  to  walk  alone  with  him  upon  the  moor. 
When  they  set  out  together  she  found  herself  involun 
tarily  stealing  furtive  sidelong  glances  at  him.  There 
was  that  in  his  face  which  drew  her  eyes  in  spite  of  her. 
It  was  a  look  so  intense  and  new  that  once  she  caught 
her  breath,  trembling.  It  was  then  that  he  turned  to 
look  at  her  and  began  to  talk.  He  began — and  went 
on — and  as  she  listened  there  came  to  her  sudden 
flooding  tears  and  more  than  once  a  loud  startled  sob  of 
joy. 

"But  he  begs  that  she  shall  not  see  him  until  he  is 
less  ghastly  to  behold.  He  says  the  memory  of  such  a 
face  would  tell  her  things  she  must  never  know.  His 
one  thought  is  that  she  must  not  know.  Things  happen 
to  a  man's  nerves  when  he  has  seen  and  borne  the  ulti 
mate  horrors.  Men  have  gone  mad  under  the  prolonged 
torture.  He  sometimes  has  moments  of  hideous  col 
lapse  when  he  cannot  shut  out  certain  memories.  He 
is  more  afraid  of  such  times  than  of  anything  else.  He 
feels  he  must  get  hold  of  himself." 

Dowie's  step  slackened  until  it  stopped.     Her  almost 

338 


KOBLNT  339 

awed  countenance  told  him  what  she  felt  she  must 
know  or  perish.  He  felt  that  she  had  her  rights  and 
one  of  them  was  the  right  to  he  told.  She  had  been  a 
Strong  tower  of  honest  faith  and  love. 

"My  lord,  might  I  ask  if  you  have  told  him — all 
about  it  V9 

"Yes,  Dowie,"  he  answered.  "All  is  well  and  no  one 
but  ourselves  will  ever  know.  The  marriage  in  the 
dark  old  church  is  no  longer  a  marriage.  Only  the 
first  one — which  he  can  prove — stands." 

The  telling  of  his  story  to  Donal  had  been  a  marvel 
lous  thing  because  he  had  so  controlled  its  drama  that 
it  had  even  been  curiously  undramatic.  He  had  made 
it  a  mere  catalogued  statement  of  facts.  As  Donal  had 
lain  listening  his  heart  had  seemed  to  turn  over  in 
his  breast. 

"If  I  had  known  you !"  he  panted  low.  "If  we  had 
known  each  other!  We  did  not!" 

Later,  bit  by  bit,  he  told  him  of  Jackson — only  of 
Jackson.  He  never  spoke  of  other  things.  When  put 
together  the  "bit  by  bit"  amounted  to  this : 

"He  was  a  queer,  simple  sort  of  American.  He  was 
full  of  ideals  and  a  kind  of  unbounded  belief  in  his 
country.  He  had  enlisted  in  Canada  at  the  beginning. 
He  always  believed  America  would  come  in.  He  was 
sure  the  Germans  knew  she  would  and  that  was  why 
they  hated  Americans.  The  more  they  saw  her  stirred 
up,  the  more  they  hated  the  fellows  they  caught — and 
the  worse  they  treated  them.  They  were  hellish  to 
Jackson !" 

He  had  stopped  at  this  point  and  Coombe  had  noted 
a  dreaded  look  dawning  in  his  eyes. 

"Don't  go  on,  my  boy.  It's  bad  .for  you,"  he  broke 
in. 


340  ROBIN 

Donal  shook  his  head  a  little  as  if  to  shake  something 
away. 

"I  won't  go  on  with — that,"  he  said.  "But  the 
dream — I  must  tell  you  ahout  that.  It  saved  me  from 
going  mad — and  Jackson  did.  He  believed  in  a  lot 
of  things  I'd  not  heard  of  except  as  jokes.  He  called 
them  New  Thought  and  Theosophy  and  Christian  Sci 
ence.  He  wasn't  clever,  hut  he  believed.  And  it  helped 
him.  When  I'm  stronger  I'll  try  to  tell  you.  Suh- 
conscious  mind  and  astral  body  came  into  it.  I  had 
begun  to  see  things — just  through  starvation  and  agony. 
I  told  him  about  Robin  when  I  scarcely  knew  what  I 
was  saying.  He  tried  to  hold  me  quiet  by  saying  her 
name  to  me  over  and  over.  He'd  pull  me  up  with  it. 
He  began  to  talk  to  me  about  dreaming.  When  your 
body's  not  fed — you  begin  to  see  clear — if  your  spirit 
is  not  held  down." 

He  was  getting  tired  and  panting  a  little.  Coombe 
bent  nearer  to  him. 

"I  can  guess  the  rest.  I  have  been  reading  books 
on  such  subjects.  He  told  you  how  to  concentrate  on 
dreaming  and  try  to  get  near  her.  He  helped  you  by 
suggestion  himself — " 

"He  used  to  lie  awake  night  after  night  and  do  it — 
and  I  began  to  dream —  No,  it  was  not  a  dream.  I 
believe  I  got  to  her —  He  did  it — and  they  killed 
him!" 

"Hush!  hush!"  cried  Coombe.  "Of  all  men  he 
would  most  ardently  implore  you  to  hold  yourself 
still—" 

Donal  made  some  strange  effort.     He  lay  still. 

"Yes,  he  would!  Yes — of  all  the  souls  in  the  other 
world  he'd  be  strongest.  He  saved  me — he  saved  Robin 
— he  saved  the  child — you — all  of  us!  Perhaps  he's 


KOBIN  341 

here  now!  He  said  he'd  come  if  he  could.  He  be 
lieved  he  could." 

He  lay  quiet  for  a  few  seconds  and  then  the  Donal 
smile  they  had  all  adored  lighted  up  his  face. 

"Jackson,  old  chap !"  he  said.  "I  can't  see  you — 
but  I'll  do  what  you  want  me  to  do — I'll  do  it." 

He  fainted  the  next  minute  and  the  doctors  came  to 
him. 

The  facts  which  came  later  still  were  that  Jackson 
had  developed  consumption,  and  exposure  and  brutality 
had  done  their  worst.  And  Donal  had  seen  his  heart 
wringing  end. 

"But  he  knew  America  would  come  in.  I  believed  it 
too,  because  he  did.  Just  at  the  right  time.  'All  the 
rest  have  fought  like  mad  till  they're  tired — though 
they'll  die  fighting,'  he  said.  'America's  not  tired. 
She's  got  everything  and  she  sees  red  with  frenzy  at  the 
bestiality.  She'll  burst  in — just  at  the  right  time!' 
Jackson  Tcnew!" 


"I  must  not  go  trembling  to  her,"  Donal  said  on  the 
morning  when  at  last — long  last,  it  seemed — he  drove 
with  Coombe  up  the  moor  road  to  Darreuch.  "But," 
bravely,  "what  does  it  matter  ?  I'm  trembling  because 
I'm  going  to  her!" 

He  had  been  talking  about  her  for  weeks — for  days 
he  had  been  able  to  talk  of  nothing  else —  Coombe  had 
listened  as  if  he  heard  echoes  from  a  past  when  he  would 
have  so  talked  and  dared  not  utter  a  word.  He  had 
talked  as  a  boy  lover  talks — as  a  young  bridegroom 
might  let  himself  pour  his  joy  forth  to  his  most  sacredly 
trusted  friend. 

Her  loveliness,  the  velvet  of  her  lifting  eyes — the 


342  KOBIN 

wonder  of  her  trusting  soul — the  wonder  of  her  un 
earthly  selfless  sweetness! 

"It  was  always  the  same  kind  of  marvel  every  time 
you  saw  her/'  he  said  boyishly.  "You  couldn't  be 
lieve  there  could  be  such  sweetness  on  earth — until  you 
saw  her  again.  Even  her  eyes  and  her  little  mouth  and 
her  softness  were  like  that.  You  had  to  tell  yourself 
about  them  over  and  over  again  to  make  them  real 
when  she  wasn't  there !" 

He  was  still  thin,  but  the  ghastly  hollows  had  filled 
and  his  smile  scarcely  left  his  face — and  he  had  waited 
as  long  as  he  could. 

"And  to  see  her  with  a  little  child  in  her  arms !"  he 
had  murmured.  "liobin!  Holding  it — and  being 
careful !  And  showing  it  to  me !" 

After  he  first  caught  sight  of  the  small  old  towers  of 
Darreuch  he  could  not  drag  his  eyes  from  them. 

"She's  there !  She's  there !  They're  both  there  to 
gether!"  he  said  over  and  over.  Just  before  they  left 
the  carriage  he  wakened  as  it  were  and  spoke  to 
Coombe. 

"She  won't  be  frightened,"  he  said.  "I  told  her— 
last  night." 

Coombe  had  asked  himself  if  he  must  go  to  her. 
But,  marvellously  even  to  him,  there  was  no  need. 

When  they  stood  in  the  dark  little  hall — as  she  had 
come  down  the  stone  stairway  on  the  morning  when  she 
bade  him  her  sacred  little  good-bye,  so  she  came  down 
again — like  a  white  blossom  drifting  down  from  its 
branch — like  a  white  feather  from  a  dove's  wing. 
— But  she  held  her  baby  in  her  arms  and  to  Donal  her 
cheeks  and  lips  and  eyes  were  as  he  had  first  seen  them 
in  the  Gardens. 


KOBIN  343 

He  trembled  as  he  watched  her  and  even  found  him 
self  spellbound — waiting. 

"Donal!     Donal!" 

And  they  were  in  his  arms — the  soft  warm  things 
— and  he  sat  down  upon  the  lowest  step  and  held  them 
— rocking — and  trembling  still  more — but  with  the 
gates  of  peace  open  and  earth  and  war  shut  out. 


THE   END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


Art*    »    1S47 


QCT  1 2'65  -1 PM 


LD  21-100m-l. 


YB  73167 


912800 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


STATIONERY,  CARDS 

nAKIAND   CALIF 


i 


iliiiii 


I 

1 


